


Perspective

by Arowen12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe, Blind Character, Blindness, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Casual Ableism, Gen, Jon is blind from a young age, Jon isn't an asshole all the time, M/M, No Animal Death, Service Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arowen12/pseuds/Arowen12
Summary: Jon isn’t born blind, he once saw the world and all it’s colours, knew intimately the reflection that stared back at him from the mirror, or the curve of his mother’s smile, his father’s favourite shirt. The memories are faded but he holds onto them with every fibre of his being, the before and after all he is.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 80
Kudos: 363





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, I'm here with another TMA fic. I couldn't get this idea out of my head, especially with how it would change canon. I hope you all enjoy, read on!

Jon isn’t born blind, he once saw the world and all its colours knew intimately the reflection that stared back at him from the mirror, or the curve of his mother’s smile, his father’s favourite shirt. The memories are faded but he holds onto them with every fibre of his being, the before and after all he is.

Before the accident and after.

His father dies a year before and, in the accident, Jon loses both his mother and his sight. He still remembers waking up, the sterile disinfectant smell, the beep of monitors, the soft sounds of footsteps, voices, and the flutter of his eyelids opening. He remembers that moment like it is crystallised in his mind, preserved in amber, the moment where nothing but darkness greets him.

Jon remembers blinking trying to clear it, remembers numb fingers touching his face searching for a blindfold, or a piece of cloth and finding nothing. The next bit is all a bit blurry honestly, he remembers the doctor explaining in a sharp clinical voice, about therapy, treatment, braille. He remembers a hand in his, skin like parchment, bony and veined, his grandmother’s perfume rose and something else.

Jon is a difficult child. His grandmother, who raised a child of her own, is bitter at being saddled with yet another child, one in which she must devote yet more time to. Jon knows this, and even as a child he doesn’t blame the woman for the bitterness. She still tries, still cards her fingers through his hair, learns braille, fights for his education. She is still cold, distant.

He spends those first few months learning where everything in her home is, the table that juts out from the doorway, the one tile that always scuffs beneath his feet, he is thankful the house is only one floor because the idea of braving the stairs in complete darkness terrifies him. He has a meltdown when she moves the coffee table and he topples over and scrapes his knees, she cradles him to his chest as he sobs and sobs because it's not fair.

The therapist recommends a guide dog but his grandmother is allergic to dogs, Jon settles for a cane which taps out a steady rhythm beneath him when he walks with her to the park when they move through the supermarket.

It all becomes too much sometimes, too loud, busy crowded shopping centres, too much noise, too many scents, voices. Jon gets lost in it all, till he can’t even find himself amidst it all and it’s only his grandmother’s hand on his wrist that centres him, he only really breathes again in the parking lot as she chides him and wipes at the tears on his cheeks.

Before the accident, Jon loved to read, he would consume book after book tearing through them like a kid with Halloween candy. In the aftermath, he focuses all his attention on learning braille differentiating the raised dots beneath his fingers. It’s a pain-staking process, slow, and sometimes Jon has to just stop and breathe away the tears of frustration that gather uselessly.

The first time his grandmother presents him with a book in braille he cradles it to his chest and spends all night working through it, he supposes one benefit about being blind is not needing a night light.

He gets better, faster until it’s second nature to him and its almost like it was before. He used to read and picture it in his mind like a movie, now it is just flashes of what he knows things are supposed to look like, supposed to be. He can’t afford to be picky and it stings sometimes, hearing about books he wants to read, movies he wants to see, not just hear the audio aids.

For his tenth birthday, his grandmother gets him a braille reader and a laptop, one which has more than a few eBooks on it. Jon’s heart beats strangely in his chest when she tells him what it is, what it does, and the tears burn on his cheeks as she presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

Jon is with his grandmother in the thrift store as with a gimlet eye she searches for clothing, Jon grows too fast apparently. He trails his fingers over a nearby bin of books, glossy covers, old pages, fabric-bound, his hand pauses over one, long and thin shaped like a children’s book. He slips it into the cart.

When Jon gets home, he trails his fingers over the pages, but he can not see the illustrations of what he will later know to be a spider, he cannot be trapped by Mr. Spider’s web but he can still feel the strange draw of the book. Jon tucks it away and he doesn’t forget about it but it often slips his mind.

He finds more books like it, the ones that don’t hum but feel strange beneath his fingers, as if they’re reaching out to him, Jon slips them in the cart and his grandmother never notices. He’ll run his fingers over the cover and he’ll imagine what it might say, what the contents might contain before carefully slotting it away with the others. He never shows his grandmother and he’s never sure why.

What Jon does know is that he believes in the supernatural. The memories of the accident may be faded in his mind but Jon knows what he saw before it all happened, he remembers and it’s a sight he’ll never forget.

Jon goes to university, he packs the strange books in a cardboard book which he’ll leave beneath his dorm bed and his grandmother says she is proud of him, it hasn’t been easy on either on them.

The university isn’t particularly willing to make accommodations, by now Jon isn’t even surprised, he adapts, speaks to his professors who all seem understanding if confused as to what he is doing in their classes. It goes unsaid, but he can tell they all wonder what he’ll do with his degree as if his lack of sight means he is helpless.

Georgie steps into his life with all the force of a natural disaster, he falls in love with her laughter, with the cadence of her voice and the way she pronounces ‘tarantula’, the way she gives him her headphones when it’s all too much, or the way she just listens when he talks.

She is the one to suggest the guide dog. Jon has all but forgotten it was an option, so many years with the tap, tap of his cane but she is so earnest, has researched everything and he agrees before he can really think too much about it.

The Lieutenant is a shaggy golden retriever who is in Georgie’s words, ‘absolutely adorable’, her nose is cold when it presses against Jon’s hands and her fur is soft when she curls against him in their apartment. The Admiral is not a fan at first, hissing at the Lieutenant whenever she pads into the room with Jon, but after a tenuous few months, they become fast friends.

It’s nice. If Jon forgets his stick, she’ll bring it, she helps him when he’s walking down the street, and sure it’s like he’s the navigator and she’s the driver (perhaps she should be named Pilot), but it’s nice.

Georgie and Jon don’t last, he can’t even be surprised, he’s asexual and he’s always known that would put a dent in the relation. Georgie laughs when he mentions this and presses a kiss to her cheek, tells him it’s not that, that doesn’t matter. They’re still friends and she demands that the Lieutenant and the Admiral have playdates and Jon is happy to oblige.

Jon applies to the Magnus Institute, a part of him twitches with nerves wondering if his lack of sight will result in a firm dismissal. There are interviews and Jon swallows and holds up a pair of button-ups and lets the Lieutenant choose one.

The building itself feels strange beneath his feet, he’s not sure how to quantify it, but it is accompanied by the unerring feeling of being watched, not unwholly a strange feeling. Everyone likes to stare at the blind man after all.

“Do you believe your lack of sight will be a detriment?” the man across from him asks, his voice is oil slick and he had introduced himself as Elias Bouchard.

“Not at all sir,” Jon replies as the Lieutenant rests at his feet, he can’t see it but he likes to think the man across from him smiles, he is certain it isn’t a pleasant smile.

His grandmother passes away quietly and, in her sleep, Jon mourns her for a long time, but it is a peaceful sort of grief if that is at all possible. He feels untethered until Georgie takes him into her arms and wipes away the tears.

It’s in the research department where he first hears the term Leitner, Sal, who has equally horrible and fortunate luck, is complaining about one that almost put him into a coma. Jon corners Tim afterwards and listens carefully to the explanation connecting a few dots.

A few days later he knocks on the Archives’ door with a cardboard box in his arms.

“Yes?” a voice asks, it is low, almost lazy in cadence.

“Can I speak to Gertrude Robinson?” Jon questions, the Lieutenant brushes against his legs as the person in front of him makes a sound of realisation.

“Yeah she’s in her office follow me,” the man, Jon thinks it is a man, says and Jon has no choice but to follow still holding the cardboard box in his arms. A door creaks open and the man continues, “Gertrude someone’s here to see you think he’s from research.”

Jon steps inside and the door closes behind him, he hears a woman clear her throat and then, “What can I help you with…?”

“Jon Sims,” Jon replies still holding the box and not really sure where to set it down he smiles awkwardly and continues, “One of my coworkers was telling me about Leitners and I realised I had quite a few, thought I might leave them with you.”

“Had a few?” Robinson questions, her voice is sharp concise, Jon likes it.

“I’ve always had a knack for picking them up I guess, and I can’t read them either,” Jon replies with a shrug still holding the box.

“Oh, I see,” Gertrude says and there’s the sound of a chair moving and a brush of footsteps, “Thank you Mr. Sims I’m sure Artifact storage will appreciate that these were not able to claim any victims. Though I would be cautious in the future, some are dangerous to touch.”

“I know,” Jon says and waves his fingers which he knows are dotted with pale speckled stars, one of the books was particularly incendiary. He shakes his head and passes the box to Gertrude as he continues, “I’m just glad they’re out of my hair now.”

“Why bring them to the Archives?” Gertrude questions he can hear the sound of fabric shifting.

Jon frowns for a moment considering the question before he shrugs and replies, “I’m not certain, I think a few of them might be connected to Statements but I’m not certain.”

He can feel her eyes watching him as he leaves the Archives for a long time.

He doesn’t meet Gertrude again.

In the wake of her disappearance, they aren’t calling it a death yet but Jon knows with utter certainty that she is gone, he is called into Elias’ office. It is a spacious room he can tell that much and the Lieutenant sticks close to his legs.

“Jon I must commend your work in research, I must say you’ve surprised me,” Elias says, the words are a compliment but they are delivered flat, almost disinterested. Jon nods his head in thanks wondering at the point of the meeting when Elias audibly shifts and continues, “As you may be aware the position of head Archivist has just opened up. How would you feel about taking it?”

What? Seriously what?

“Sir, as much as I appreciate the offer are you certain there isn’t someone better suited to the position. Tim tells me Sasha was working with Gertrude in the past few months before her death,” Jon replies and yes he’s sticking his foot in his mouth but well there must be some other motive to this. Jon had resigned himself to a life in research, which he didn’t wholly mind.

He can’t see a reason for this. Disability quota? Amusement at watching him flounder? He’s certainly not the most qualified person in the building for the position and Jon can’t help but suspect ulterior motives.

“I’d like to see what you can do with the position Jon if you must, think of it as a trial period,” Elias, he strikes Jon as the sort of man to splay his hands out when he talks, and Jon can’t help but picture him as one of the Bond villains from the movies he watched with his father as a trial. He continues, “It’s also a bit of a pay raise.”

Living in London is expensive. Jon smiles pleasantly, or at least he hopes it is a pleasant smile, Georgie says it is, and says, “Thank you Mr. Bouchard I’ll do my best.”

“I’m certain you will,” Bouchard says and it sounds not insincere but certainly not a good thing.

He enlists Tim and Sasha as his assistants, it only seems logical to ask Martin as well, the man has the credentials and though Jon is not particularly impressed with his performance he thinks he’ll do. He can feel Sasha glaring at him when she thinks he’s not looking, so most of the time, he can’t say he blames her, though he can sense she’s also a bit guilty about said glaring.

Tim tells him about the mess and Jon doesn’t quite groan in despair as he tells them to digitize the files they can, those that they can’t he’ll record. Tim jokes about accessibility and pets the Lieutenant who loves Tim because he always has treats for her even when she’s working.

So, Jon tries, they all try really and he appreciates it when Sasha will give him the research in braille, or Tim will guide him through the canteen one arm looped with his. Martin makes tea, it is excellent tea, and Jon nods in thanks trying to be professional.

He records his first statement on a Friday, early in the morning, his fingers trailing over the braille as the recorder whirs away (Sasha managed to find a brand with braille on the buttons and it means everything).

The words fall from his lips and he slips into a strange headspace, he can feel Nathan Watts’ fear beating inside his chest, a companion to his own heartbeat, he can _see_ it in his mind, shades of blotchy grey blurring into something like an alleyway, the glow of a cigarette in white, the words echoing in his head.

“… Statement ends,” Jon gasps, sucking in lungfuls of air as he shakes his head as if waking from a deep sleep, or a trance. He feels watched even though he is alone in the office, feels as if every inch of him is seen. He goes over the supplemental information but his hands won’t stop shaking and he feels drained.

It takes him a few days, the Lieutenant, and copious amounts of Martin’s tea to feel right again.

Naomi Hearne gives her statement and even though the Lieutenant isn’t that kind of support dog she brushes against her legs and nuzzles (forces) her cold nose onto Naomi’s hand when she loses focus. The statement sits heavy in Jon’s chest, like a particularly filling meal and he can’t quite parse what it means.

He sends Martin to investigate Carlos Vittery and when Martin doesn’t show for two weeks, ostentatiously sick with a nasty bug, Jon can’t shake the feeling that something is _wrong_. Then Martin stumbles into the Archives, his breath is fast in his lungs and the Lieutenant noses at his hands if the surprised laugh is any indication.

Jon appreciates how Martin gives a statement; he takes the time to describe everything where others don’t necessarily consider that Jon can’t in fact see with his own eyes.

“The worms what do they look like?” Jon can’t help but ask carefully, lacing his hands together so they can’t shake, so Martin can’t see them shake.

“They’re pale white, about the size of a normal worm, they sort of make a squelching sound when they move across the floor,” Martin replies and Jon files it away even as his guts twist with anxiety. He runs his fingers through the Lieutenant’s fur and can’t help but contemplate what he’s gotten himself into.

He offers for Martin to stay at the Institute at least until everything with Jane Prentiss, or the entity formerly known as blows over. Martin’s voice pitches to something like surprise, a good kind Jon thinks and he accepts; it means on late nights Jon gets more cups of tea and sometimes, just rarely he’ll hear Martin working on his poetry.

Sasha stumbles into his office, she is out of breath, near hyperventilating as she all but collapses in the chair in front of his desk. The Lieutenant darts from under Jon’s hand to her side as she makes a wounded sound and something squelches.

“Are you okay Sasha?” Jon questions carefully, wishing desperately that he could see her, do more to comfort her.

“I-I need to make a statement,” Sasha gasps out.

“Of course,” Jon replies and he listens as she described the Distortion, Michael, who wants to help them. Jon puzzles it over in his mind for a long time, hearing faintly the echoing of a door creaking open and shut.

“You’re not what I was expecting,” Melanie King, of the apparently infamous Ghost Hunt UK (Georgie’s mentioned it a few times, Jon isn’t all that interested in listening to people talk in whispers for twenty minutes) says as she enters his office, the door shuts behind her too loud and Jon presses back in his seat.

He raises a brow and she huffs and says, “Not like that, geez that came out wrong.”

“What were you expecting Ms. King?” Jon asks curiously as the Lieutenant brushes against his hand, her tail touches his fingertips and Jon smiles when he hears the sound of Melanie’s laughter. The Lieutenant has claimed another victim.

“I don’t know, some old dude, though you’ve certainly got the oxfords,” Melanie replies, the pop of gum fills the room for a moment and the squeak of the chair as she shifts.

“You’re thinking of Gertrude, my predecessor. Now I believe you have a statement for me?” Jon says with an approximation of a smile.

Melanie makes an annoyed sound somewhere in her throat, the gum pops again and she asks, “Depends, you going to believe me?”

“I’ll try, though I can’t say we aren’t dubious about our statements for certain reasons,” Jon replies as the Lieutenant brushes up against his thigh and the tape recorder clicks on of its own accord.

“That’s fair,” Melanie replies with another pop of gum.

“Statement of Melanie King regarding…”

When the statement is finished and Ms. King has left the room in a flurry of anger, because Jon insinuated it would be hard to prove it without proof, he stirs the story in his mind. The name Sarah Carpenter is familiar and Jon can just vaguely place it as one of the missing persons from the Angler Fish case. Interesting.

At night, Jon shakes himself awake from nightmares, a world cast in blurry shades of grey like an impressionist painting or a charcoal sketch, he stares into empty graves which beckon him forward, misshapen hearts beat on operating tables. Jon watches, always, endlessly watching, and in a perverse sense, he enjoys it, enjoys being able to see even distorted as it is.

“Some movers brought a table into artefact storage today, boss, just thought you should know,” Tim says and Jon blinks pulling himself out of a statement he blinks again, a useless gesture, and tilts his head.

“A table?”

“Yeah it has this pattern on it, kind of mesmerising, like one of those optical illusions,” Tim says a smile to his voice and Jon shifts frowning.

“Does it draw your attention to the centre of the table?” Jon asks and rises to his feet, he trails his fingers carefully over the boxes on his shelves, Martin was kind enough to find a way to label them in braille and his fingers pause and pull out one box.

“I guess you could say that boss,” Tim replies shifting audibly, the Lieutenant pads across the floor likely seeking treats.

“I think you all should stay away from that table,” Jon says flicking through the statements until he finds the one, he was looking for. Jon can’t help but wonder if it is the same table seen in Graham Folger’s house, and if so if the creature that took Graham followed it.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Tim replies and is followed by the sound of the door clicking shut.

Jon can’t see spiders, though he always has a certain feeling when they’re in the room, similar to the constant feeling of watchfulness. He has that feeling now and while the Lieutenant seems content to consume them, she is at home after eating some chocolate she shouldn’t have.

“Martin?” Jon calls out one hand on the doorway and continues, “I think there’s a spider in here again.”

“Jon, how do you even know there are spiders in your office?” Sasha questions mostly amused, there is the sound of a chair scraping against the linoleum and Martin’s footsteps, a bit heavy, but always even.

“It’s his spider-sense,” Tim jokes his chair squeaking, Jon thinks he’s probably twirling around lazily.

“I’ll see if I can find it, Jon,” Martin says and Jon steps back feels the brush of air when Martin passes. Jon follows and apparently someone has been in his office, or maybe he’s been sitting too long because he trips and his elbow goes through the wall when he tries to stabilise himself.

Martin screams and there is an arm tugging him back and out of his office. He hears the strange rustling squelching sound as Martin tugs him bodily through the main room, Sasha makes a choked off scream sort of sound and Tim is cursing.

“What’s going on?” Jon demands but doesn’t pry his hand out of Martin’s grasp just lets him tug him forward.

“The worms, they were in the walls,” Tim says and the words are tight, Jon can hear the sound again following them. Something starts to burrow into his legs and he cries out as they slip into a room the door slamming shut behind them.

It’s a bit of a blur after that for a bit. He has only the darkness, his own rushed breathing, the muffled screams as Martin uses a corkscrew, Sasha calmly tells him what is happening but she sounds faint, and outside the sound of the worms.

Sasha and Tim volunteer to try and find the fire suppression system, which Jon can not be more thankful they switched to Co2 on his insistence (he sent so many emails). Jon can’t walk, knows he would be useless anyways and it sits somewhere heavy in his chest.

“It’ll, they’ll be fine,” Martin whispers and Jon knows he’s watching, trying to see through the worms that swarm over the door, God Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever stop hearing them, the strange rustling sound (like singing, it’s like singing).

Jon wants to tell himself that it's just an infestation that they just need pest control and it’ll all be over. But he can’t, he knows it’s real, the same way the Leitners hummed beneath his fingertips, the same as the thing he saw before the accident.

He tells Martin, “Of course I’m sceptical, it’s that or be terrified. Do you know what the last thing I saw was before I lost my vision? It was terrifying, it wasn’t human.”

“Jon,” Martin says his name softly and loops his fingers through Jon’s grounds him there, in that moment.

Tim comes back, they go into the tunnels underneath the Institute, the feeling of being watched just stops Jon doesn’t really notice amidst the terror. They get separated, one-minute Martin’s familiar footsteps, his hand in Jon’s and then he’s gone.

They push through the trap door and for one terrible moment the darkness greys slightly and Jon can see something that was once human, pocked with darkness so dark it’s like what he imagines a black hole to be. Then there is the pain as the worms burrow into his skin.

In the aftermath, Jon sits in the back of an ambulance a tape recorder in his hands and a shock blanket around his shoulders. There’s too much sensory input, voices, footsteps, the pain pounding through his veins and firing upon his nerves.

One thought, they found Gertrude Robinson’s corpse, Martin found it.

Jon goes home and cradles the Lieutenant to his chest; he calls Georgie and cries silently as she talks about her day for an hour and then about her podcast (which Jon always listens to because he likes the sound of her voice) until he is asleep.

The next day he goes into work, he’s got bandages that are probably stained a rusty brown, they’ll probably scar and Jon is almost relieved he won’t have to see it. Georgie is waiting for him with her car, an old Honda accord, she fusses over his scars the whole way to the Institute (she’s believed she’s always believed), while the Lieutenant pants happily in the back seat.

She walks him into the Archives, her arm looped with his, introduces herself to Tim, who flirts with her, to Martin who makes a strange sound when Georgie introduces herself as, “Jon’s ex,”, Sasha isn’t in yet but Jon thinks they’ll get along in a sort of terrifying manner.

Georgie presses a kiss to his cheek and promises to pick him up at the end of the day, at God forbid, a reasonable time. Jon grins and takes both Martin and Tim’s statement before hunting down Elias who concedes.

He walks back into the Archives to Tim saying, “Sasha you wouldn’t believe it, Jon walks in with the Lieutenant and on his arm is- oh hey boss we were just talking about you.”

Someone laughs it is feminine, it is not Sasha’s laugh. Sasha’s laugh is low and rumbly and she snorts when she’s really amused, this laugh is tittering, high and fake, like an imitation of laughter or rather a mockery.

The Lieutenant, at Jon’s side, stills as they enter the main office and she begins to growl low in her throat.

“Jon what’s wrong with the Lieutenant,” the woman asks and he hears the sound of heels on the linoleum. Sasha never wears heels she always wears sensible flats and shoes that have a nice steady click. That is not Sasha’s voice, Sasha’s voice is soothing, articulate and lower. This voice is too high, runny like a knife.

“Who are you?” Jon asks carefully, the Lieutenant growls beside him, the words bubble from his throat, they taste like static and a high ozone thing like right before a lightning storm.

“What do you mean Jon? That’s Sasha,” Martin says cautiously no doubt worried for Jon’s health. He’d like to say that they’re all still here and that he’s fine.

“Yeah Jon, don’t you know your own assistant?” The not-Sasha responds with another laugh, teasing, almost toying.

“Answer the question, _who are you?_ ” Jon demands and this time the static is audible, there’s a recorder and he’s not sure when it clicked on but he knows it’s there somewhere in the room. Watching.

“Oh, you figured the game out rather quickly Archivist, shame I thought this could go on a bit longer. Don’t you know who I am, haven’t you read about me in your little statements?” The not-Sasha says and Jon can hear Martin’s breathing pick up and Tim cursing, the Lieutenant barks.

“You’re the not-them and the real Sasha is dead,” Jon says with utter certainty, he knows it is true and he hates that he knows.

“Very good little Archivist and now I think I’m going to kill you,” the not-Sasha says with a chuckle.

“No,” Jon says and he blinks, the taste of ozone and static is growing stronger, he blinks again and he _opens his eyes_. The world is greys, shades and splashes of it but Jon can see the not-them, distorted limbs, too long, wrong, Jon opens his mouth and the words fall out, “I _Know_ you.”

The not-them flinches back and makes is it a pained shriek? Jon doesn’t know, doesn’t speak this strange language that is at all costs _not_ human. Jon blinks again and he repeats it, “I _Know_ you.”

And he does. The statement unspools in his mind, he is reading this creature’s miserable existence, it’s victims, Sasha’s last moments. Jon inhales sharply and he commands, “Get out of the Archives, return and I will destroy you.”

There is a terrible shrieking sound, so loud it is almost ear piercing and then Jon can tell, it is gone. His eyes flicker shut, the darkness once more embraces him and this time Jon welcomes it as he leans heavily against the wall.

“My laptop please Martin,” Jon says quietly gasping for breath. Sasha is dead, she is gone, Jon will never hear her laughter again or feel her fingers wrap around his arm as they walk down the street. Rubbing at his eyes Jon adds, “Tim please go tell Elias what’s happened. The table will need to be moved.”

“Jon, what happened?” Martin questions and Jon feels Martin’s hand, larger than his own, not calloused, and warm, wrap around Jon’s hand.

He inhales roughly, sucks back a sob and says, “Sasha’s gone. That thing, the not-them it replaces people, it was in that statement about Graham Folger. It, if you listen to tapes her voice won’t be the same, the pictures have changed but not- not the ones on Martin’s desk.”

“That’s… she can’t be,” Tim says softly, desperately. Martin’s fingers tighten around Jon’s hand and his shoulders tuck close to his body as the Lieutenant presses against his legs. He is exhausted not sure if it was whatever the Hell that was or just emotional exhaustion.

“I-I’ll get your laptop Jon why don’t you sit down?” Martin says, always the caretaker. Jon nods and lets Martin guide him towards a desk, Tim steps forward and he wraps his arms around Jon tugs him into a hug, sobs build up and break from Tim’s and Jon rubs his hands slowly up and down Tim’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly, softly.

Tim pulls back one hand reaching to rub away the tears Jon didn’t know were collecting on his cheeks and pushes Jon gently into a chair as he says, “I’ll go speak to Elias.”

Jon sits at the desk that once belonged to Sasha and puts his head in his hands. Martin comes back a few minutes later and places his laptop in front of him Jon opens it up and a tape recorder clicks on, “Statement of the not-them…”

The Archives are quiet after that. Elias comes down and tells them the table has been relocated to a secure holding facility at one of the other European branches better suited to such artefacts. He says meaningless condolences for Sasha and then follows Jon into his office and says, “I was quite impressed Jon, I had my doubts but I think I was wrong. I’m beginning to See that now.”

Jon makes a vague sound doesn’t think on it, can’t think on it because then he’ll think about the taste of ozone, the static on his tongue, the sight that wasn’t sight. And he can’t.

It’s quiet without Sasha, Tim has sunken into silence, only the occasional word or grunt, Martin tries to fill the silence but he is grieving like the rest of them and he tries to deal with it through cups of tea and knitted sweaters (he had made one for Sasha, it was supposed to be a Christmas present). Jon is spiralling sinking and he’s not sure into what or where but he reads statement after statement as if it might fill the gap, he goes home late and flinches at every rustle.

Basira Hussain breaks through the quiet air hanging over the Archives, she settles in Jon’s office and he can feel the sensation of her eyes as Martin sets two cups of tea on the table and then quickly flees. The Lieutenant brushes against his hands and then pads forward likely to investigate the officer.

“So, do you think I killed Gertrude?” Jon asks curiously as he reaches out and carefully secures his fingers around the mug, the heat seeping pleasantly into his hands, he feels soft bumps where the enamel has some sort of design.

“Just because you’re blind doesn’t mean you didn’t kill her, I’ve seen my fair share of strange,” Basira responds and he hears her shift before she sighs and says, “But I don’t think you killed her, or any of your assistants. Which doesn’t leave many suspects.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Jon says softly rubbing a hand over his face before he adds, “If you’d like I could try and help you figure it out. Martin says you have some of Gertrude’s tapes?”

“I don’t think you’ll be much help no offence,” Basira says and he can almost imagine her studying him with narrow eyes before she continues, “But I’ll bring a few of the tapes over, I’m sure you’re just as curious about the whole thing as I am.”

“Well I’d prefer to know if I have to keep looking over my shoulder certainly,” Jon jokes dryly as the Lieutenant brushes against his hands. He takes a sip of the tea, feels it fill up his chest with a warmth that’s felt absent for a long time.

“I’ll drop by later with some of the tapes,” Basira says and shifts like she’s going to leave.

“Would you like to make a statement?” Jon offers the words tripping off his tongue, twisting somewhere in his stomach with the bitter taste of the not-them. He can hear the officer pause shifting in her chair to pin Jon with her eyes.

“You have a non-disclosure agreement?” Basira asks as the Lieutenant pads over and from her short huff of laughter rubs her cold nose into Basira’s hand.

“Of a sort,” Jon agrees and waits, he won’t force her, or anyone to make a statement. Not when at night he watches statements play out in shades of grey, it’s the only time he sees Sasha anymore and he knows it won’t last.

“You know what fine,” Basira agrees and he hears the sound of the second mug shifting.

Jon smiles and begins, “Statement of Basira Hussain…”

Helen Richardson’s steps are uneven, they tilt heavy one moment and soft the next and the Lieutenant whines low in her throat and goes to sit by the woman. Jon can, he can not see but perhaps sense that something is _wrong_ not in the way that the other statement givers were wrong, because Jon knows that they’ve gone on, the terror lingers but does not follow. Whatever chases Helen it still follows.

She gives her statement and the name Michael, the Distortion sits sour on the air as she talks and Jon listens and listens. Helen finishes and Jon tries to reassure her, tells her to pay attention to what door she goes through, he knows it’s hopeless.

The door creaks behind her, it is a different creak to that of his office door and is accompanied by a laugh that is utterly _wrong_ pitched up and down, it is a laugh like a scream. Jon tilts his head and says, “Michael?”

“Hello Archivist,” It greets and it does not make a sound though Jon can hear a strange vibration upon the air, the Lieutenant cowers, whining and tucking herself against Jon’s side as the Distortion continues, “You aren’t what I expected Archivist, not at all.”

Jon gasps at the sudden sharp pain in his shoulders he’s not sure if it’s a knife or something else, well he Knows it’s something else. Michael laughs, the sound scraping against Jon’s ears and he lets out a pained groan.

“I’ll be seeing you, Archivist,” It says and then a door creaks shut and it is gone.

Jon stumbles out into the main office and lets Martin fuss over the wound as he leans his head on Tim’s shoulder.

There’s still the matter of the tunnels, they call to Jon when he’s in his office, at home listening to Georgie’s latest episode, on the tube. He can’t go into them alone, that would be a recipe for disaster and unfair to the Lieutenant. So, he goes to Tim, because Martin would do it but he’d also be terrified the whole time and Jon isn’t cruel.

But Tim, he’s a fan of Smirke’s architecture and Jon knows from pub nights that he likes to travel, likes to kayak when he has the time, so Jon assumes he probably has a good sense of direction. He brings it up to Tim who is silent for a long moment before he says, “Alright.”

(in another life, in another world, Jon is suspicious of his assistants. In this one he trusts them, trusts them to guide him across a busy street, to speak about who Sasha was and mean it)

The tunnels are dank, cold, and Jon doesn’t like the way his footsteps echo off everything. Tim’s arm is warm wrapped around Jon’s as he gives a stunning commentary on the dark walls, there’s no graffiti, and the twisting tunnels. He keeps peppering in jokes about both the Minotaur and Hansel and Gretel.

Jon doesn’t mind.

They get lost, Jon isn’t surprised, he feels a bolt of terror in his chest but he swallows it down and lets Tim guide him back. He can feel that there’s something in the tunnels, an answer and God Jon needs answers.

They find their way out and Martin scolds them even as he plies them with tea.

Detective Tonner has heavy footsteps and Jon can feel her glaring at him from across the desk, the Lieutenant, however, is apparently happy to see her and is panting in that sort of content dog way.

“Basira’s convinced you didn’t kill Robinson,” Tonner, call me Daisy, says her voice is low, a bit rough, with a touch of an accent that reminds Jon somewhat of the wilderness.

He blinks and replies, “I didn’t.”

She huffs shifts and continues, “You’ve got the whole ‘harmless wouldn’t hurt a fly’ vibe but you can’t fool me, I can tell, you’re not human, not really.”

Oh. Jon tilts his head, is that… is that true?

It would explain the… well whatever happened with the not-them, the way his questions are almost always answered. But why? And how?

For the moment, Jon puts it aside and responds, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Daisy snorts and Jon can’t help but wonder as she replies, “Doesn’t matter I’m just here to drop off these tapes.”

“Would-would you like to make a statement?” Jon asks a choice, always a choice.

“Fine,” Daisy grunts and he can hear the sound of her petting the Lieutenant’s fur.

“Statement of Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner…”

They keep exploring the tunnels, Tim brings paper and presses the pencil hard enough that Jon can trace the lines with his fingers. The hours slip away down there and it’s just the two of them, their breaths, and the walls around them.

Basira calls him, her voice is low, reedy with nerves as she asks about the People’s Church of the Divine Host, Jon frowns and tells her, “Bring light, lots of light,” then it cuts out.

She comes in the next day and her voice is shaky when she thanks Martin for the tea, the Lieutenant practically rushes to her side. Jon tilts his head and asks gently, “Would you like to give a statement?” he’s been told its cathartic.

“You know what sure, it's not like I don’t already see you in my dreams,” Basira replies half bitter half just desperate.

Jon processes that piece of information carefully, he tucks it into the folder in his mind under which he’s tentatively labelled it _monster._ Jon smiles warmly and as the tape recorder clicks on, he begins, “Statement of Basira Hussain regarding Maxwell Rayner and a raid on the People’s Church…”

They’re sitting in the tunnels, Tim and Jon, knees pressed together, a line of warmth that Jon grounds himself with. Tim is scratching with a piece of chalk on the wall, Jon thinks they’re playing hangman. He can’t tell if it’s early or late, time slips, breaks apart in the tunnels. They’re not quite lost, just existing, the tunnels aren’t quite as much of a maze as they once were, sheets of paper bound in twine in Tim’s bag.

“Do you know how the old prison was designed?” Tim asks quietly, leaning his head on Jon’s shoulder. He makes a vague sound of curiosity and Tim chuckles softly and continues, “It was designed with the guard tower in the centre and all around it the prison cells. It was the idea that the guards could be watching at any moment and it might prevent trouble. It’s called the Panopticon.”

A shiver runs down Jon’s spine at the words and he leans further into Tim’s side and asks, “Do you think one of the tunnels down here leads to it.”

“Probably, that’s the kind of shit I expect from the Institute these days,” Tim laughs it is a bitter laugh he goes silent for a long moment and it’s just the press of their knees against one another. Tim says quietly, “I tried to quit you know.”

“What?” Jon asks not quite sharply but it wants to be the words trip off his tongue and run through him like a knife, like whatever Michael stabbed him with.

“I tried, tried to compose a letter of resignation, tried to tell you even. The words wouldn’t come. Do you remember when I didn’t show up for a week? Martin probably told you I was on sick leave but I wasn’t. I got sick, real sick and only felt better when I got back to the office. I confronted Elias… we can’t leave, not us in the Archives at least. Martin knows, he kind of figured it out with the Prentiss situation.”

“Why?” Jon asks quietly trying to process the information, but it's bitter going down his throat and a part of him wants to disbelieve it for his own peace of mind. Otherwise… well, otherwise he’s in this job till he dies. In some ways, it's almost reassuring.

“After Sasha was… It just seemed pointless. I-I my brother went missing, I’ll give you a statement another day,” he sounds so tired, “I just wanted to know, I just wanted answers. Heh, guess I got more than I bargained for, should have read the fine print and all that.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly reaching his fingers out, stretching them into thin air, Tim’s hand clasps with his, familiar callouses, warm.

“You didn’t know Jon, just don’t get angry when I don’t do a lot of work,” Tim says quietly turning his head he presses a chaste kiss to Jon’s cheek. He blushes and by Tim’s laughter, he knows he’s blushing. Jon just nods and tightens his grasp around Tim’s hand.

A few days later Melanie King enters his office, she has a very distinctive walk, combat boots, also the Lieutenant perks up. She coos over the Lieutenant for a moment before she asks, “Where’s Sasha, the other assistant.”

He freezes for a long moment before he manages to choke out, “She uh, she passed away in the summer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Melanie says and she sounds honest about it.

Jon nods running his fingers over the sheets in front of him, the braille almost soothing before he asks, “I suppose you have another statement for me?”

“Yeah,” Melanie says and she sounds a touch annoyed or maybe resigned.

“Statement of Melanie King regarding?”

“War Ghosts…”

After the statement is given, Jon leans back in his chair, he feels… sated, warm, good. Melanie huffs and adds, “I’m going to India, going to investigate another similar case.”

“Please be careful,” Jon says and he’s surprised to find he means it.

Melanie laughs, it’s a nice laugh, full of huffs of air and exhales as she replies, “Sure, I’ll even bring you back a statement.”

Then she’s gone.

It’s late, Jon knows that much, can tell because the office is empty, Martin left a mug of tea and told Jon to get home before he called Georgie (Jon’s not sure when they exchanged numbers) some time ago. He’s tired, the kind of tired where you just sit, unable to find the energy to even move and his thoughts spool through his head thick as molasses.

Jon’s fingers glide slowly over the sheets on his desk, he can hear the gentle huff of the Lieutenant breathing on the doggy bed Tim got her, Martin says it’s a respectable brown and very soft looking. Jon’s fingers trip over twine, the sheets below are the maps of the tunnels, the pencil lines rise beneath his fingers.

He isn’t sure what motivates him to do it. Maybe it’s some kind of half-delusional certainty that something will happen, maybe it’s just lack of sleep addling his brain. Jon has always been impulsive, an idea plops into his head and he’s acting on it before the dust has time to settle.

The trap door squeaks open and Jon pauses for a moment before he levers it the rest of the way open. He drops into the tunnels, running his fingers along the wall, the chalk Tim left rubs against his fingers and he counts footsteps in his mind. He notices when there are too many steps, or when the air rushes out from a turn that’s not marked on the sheets of paper, he switches between a few that Tim’s marked with numbers at the top.

He enters a room, or at least Jon is certain he does, his footsteps echo louder and the air is less stale? Or maybe it’s to say there is more of it? Jon turns slowly, wondering if this is the room where Gertrude’s body was or something else entirely.

There are footsteps behind him and a voice says, “Well you’re certainly not what I expected.”

It’s an older voice almost but not quite grandfatherly, Jon turns to face the voice, it has the slightest hint of an accent he raises a brow and asks, “Who are you?”

A tape recorder clicks on somewhere distantly and Jon can almost hear his heart beating franticly in his chest, he’s trapped alone, in the tunnels where there is no sensation of being watched, with what could possibly be Gertrude’s murderer. At this point, Jon is almost resigned even if he’s still a bit terrified.

The man sighs like he’s not going to answer and Jon asks again, “ _Who are you?”_

“Jugen Leitner,” the words trip from the man’s mouth and Jon takes a wary step back as the man sighs and says, “I must say I’m quite surprised. When I saw you and your friend in the tunnels, I thought the tall one must have been the Archivist a strange choice really, but not well you.”

Jon makes an unimpressed face and crosses his arms over his chest as he replies, “I’ve been doing my job aptly enough with what I have available.”

“And I’m certain Elias hasn’t made much available, has he?” Leitner asks questions with a little puff of air. Jon shakes his head with a frown, he knows there’s something bigger than what he can well… see but he can’t piece the puzzle together; he’s never been one for puzzles.

“Tell me…?”

“Jon Sims,” He replies.

“Jon, have you heard about Smirke’s fourteen fears?” Leitner asks almost curiously.

“I-yes I did a paper on it in university, entities beside our dimension, prey on our fears, representations of their powers… oh,” Jon says very quietly as he pieces it all together. The Eye, Beholding, Ceaseless Watcher, consuming statements but never acting. The Flesh, Jane Prentiss, the Spiral, Michael, the not-them and the Stranger, all the statements, the real ones, tied somehow to one of the entities.

“Yes quite, I suppose you realise then…” Leitner asks and he sounds almost dismissive of Jon.

“The Eye, Beholding, I-we serve it,” Jon replies, the words are heavy on his tongue like they want to stay hidden behind his teeth.

Leitner makes a vague sound of agreement and replies, “Yes, you are bound to it, belong to it.”

“Do you know who killed Gertrude?” Jon asks the words slipping out before he can stop them.

“Elias, he is not what you think he is Archivist. I suppose he figured out Gertrude was trying to destroy the Archives,” Leitner cautions, again sounding almost grandfatherly, old and harmless. Jon cannot help but picture him as a lonely old man waiting for a bus in the rain, stooped and frail.

“Destroy them, why?” Jon questions his head spinning as it tries to wrap around the new information.

“I, that’s why I need Gertrude’s files, Elias has them it will explain everything. The Unknowing, the Archives,” Leitner responds and Jon itches to ask more, to rip the answers from the old man he settles on one.

“The Unknowing?”

“The Stranger’s ritual, Gertrude spent her life stopping them, though the last one she… well, to be honest, she made no move to stop it though she wouldn’t tell me why she believed it would fail on its own,” Leitner responds and his voice rasps, bouncing off the tunnels.

“And did it?” Jon demands.

“We’re still here aren’t we,” Leitner replies almost amused, his shoes squeak as the man shifts.

“And you, who are you?” Jon asks and the words trip from his mouth buzzing with static. God, Elias killed Gertrude, does that mean he’ll kill Jon too, what did she know or do that got her killed?

“Just an old foolish man,” Leitner responds and he pauses and continues, “I suppose you want my statement don’t you Archivist? Very well, I suppose I should start at the beginning, shouldn’t I?”

Jon listens as Leitner talks about collecting the books, branding them with his name, keeping them, all locked up together, so many, and then freeing them. The man’s only saving grace is that it made it easier to identify them.

“Why didn’t you destroy them?” Jon can’t help but ask the words are hot as coals on his tongue and he wants to Know why.

“Pride. If they were destroyed, what was I to guard? Besides, they are not as easy to destroy as that,” Leitner responds and Jon laughs low and bitter.

“Oh, I know,” Jon says quietly and he lifts his hand slightly so that the spark scars scattered across his hands might be visible (he’s not certain how much light is in the room).

“Yes, I-you’ve encountered them before and yet you’re fine?” Leitner questions curious and Jon can feel the weight of his eyes scanning Jon as if searching for physical evidence. The ones that reacted on contact didn’t always leave scars.

“Mostly, when you can’t read them, they can’t really affect you. I collected them whenever I stumbled upon them and delivered them to Gertrude,” Jon replies with a shrug and a sigh wishing the Lieutenant was at his side as he adds in a mutter, “I need a smoke.”

“I see, so that is where Gertrude got so many at once,” Leitner responds.

“How long have you been in the tunnels?” Jon questions and he hears Leitner make a long weary sound.

“Since the attack, where else would I go?” Leitner responds and Jon almost feels pity for him, almost.

“God, I really need a cigarette,” Jon says again shaking his head and rubbing his hand over his face. It’s all too much, he belongs to the Eye, Elias killed Gertrude, there are rituals that they might need to stop, Gertrude was going to destroy the Archives, why?

“This is not the time for a breakdown Archivist,” Leitner says chidingly.

Jon resists the urge to snarl and replies, “Excuse me if this is a lot to process. Look you’ll be here, tomorrow right? Give me the night to think about it, we can talk about it tomorrow. I’m hesitant to work with you, but I’ll help you get the files from Elias.”

Leitner makes an annoyed sound and Jon imagines him rolling his eyes before he nods and says, “I’ll be here Archivist, it’s not like there’s anywhere else I could go.”

“Okay,” Jon breathes quietly, again, “Okay.”

There is the sound of retreating footsteps and Jon can tell he is alone. Shaking his head, Jon steps out of the room and trails his fingers along the walls as he makes his way towards the trapdoor. A lot of things are clicking together, the Eye, his questions, he’s not sure what to call it, compulsion? The way he sometimes just Knows things. The strange not-sight and the nightmares, the statements. All of it blurs inside his head, overlapping, weaving together like Martin’s sweaters. A word rebounding, again and again, _monster._

The Lieutenant is whimpering when he exits the tunnels, she rushes to his side, brushes against his hands, her tail whacking his legs. Jon makes shushing sounds as he pulls on his coat and leads her out of the Archives.

Outside he pauses and pulls out a cigarette, he leans against the wall and can practically feel the Lieutenant’s gaze as he flicks his lighter, “Don’t tell Georgie, it’s just this once.”

His flat isn’t too far from the Institute and Jon trips inside doesn’t bother with anything but kicking off his shoes and brushing his teeth before he falls into bed. The Lieutenant curls up beside him and Jon falls asleep to thoughts of Gertrude Robinson and the Eye.

He wakes up to a jaunty ringtone in the direction of his phone and crawls across his bedside table before he finds it and presses what he hopes is the right button, he calls out a groggy, “Hello?”

“Jon?” It’s Georgie her voice is worried and he makes a vague noise of assent, “Martin called me, your assistant. There’s been a murder at the Institute, in the Archives, some old man. You’re the last person anyone saw leaving the institute last night and someone reported hearing the Lieutenant whimpering. The cops are trying to pin you for this dude and Robinson.”

He inhales and exhales in one long motion before saying, “Fuck.”

Georgie laughs, a teary sort of laugh and continues, “Your assistants believe you’re innocent so do I, I know you, Jon. You can explain everything later. You’re going to stay with me for now okay? At least until this, all blows over. I’m on my way over now so you can’t say no.”

“Are you sure?” Jon asks quietly as he sits up, the Lieutenant sniffs at his hand with her cold nose.

“Of course, Jon,” Georgie says softly and then, “I’ll be there in a few okay.”

The call ends and Jon sits there for a long moment, he tucks his head in his hands and just breathes. Leitner is dead, any chance of answers is gone, and he’s been accused of murder. Great. Just what he needed.

Wobbling to his feet, Jon stuffs some clothes in a bag and goes to answer the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed, I tried to handle everything as respectfully as possible but please let me know if I was insensitive about something. Also if anyone's curious as to why Elias hired Jon, he could tell he had lots of marks and was curious how it would all play out. He could just kill Jon if it didn't work out. Comments are always super appreciated, till next time thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, we are back with another chapter! You may have noticed this went from 2 to 3 chapters... yeah, this one covers season 3, stick pretty close to canon fair warning. Some lines are taken verbatim from TMA. Read on and enjoy!

Living with Georgie again is nice, it almost makes Jon question why he ever moved out, why he lives alone. She guides him through her apartment the first night, the Admiral twining between their legs and the Lieutenant bounding happily after them. They talk and it distracts Jon from the murder, the unanswered questions for a time.

They’re sat at what Jon is relatively certain is George’s kitchen table, the Lieutenant is planted across his feet trapping him, there’s the sound of Georgie moving around the kitchen, cupboards opening, a kettle boiling.

She sets something in front of him with a thunk and Jon’s fingers curl around the ceramic, a mug, as she says, “Alright, explain everything.”

Jon pauses running his fingers up and down the mug, just feeling the texture before he says quietly, “It’s dangerous Georgie, and I’m not talking crime or something otherwise equally mundane.”

“I don’t feel fear, Jon. If you’re going to stay with me, you’re going to put me in danger regardless, better I know than be left in the dark,” Georgie replies and one of her hands loops around his, smooth and she’s wearing a few rings that are cold against his own hand.

Jon considers it for a long moment before he sighs and says, “Yeah okay.”

He explains everything and it feels good, almost like a statement, it trips off his tongue filling the air until his throat is parched and dry. When he’s finished Jon takes a long sip of tea, it’s gone cold but it soothes his throat, and he tips his head forward. He’s exhausted.

“I... It’s a lot to take in,” Georgie finally says her voice is soft and her fingers draw shapes onto his hands.

Jon makes a vague sound of agreement and muffles a yawn. Georgie huffs softly and says softly, “Come on, let’s get you to bed we can deal with this in the morning.”

So, Jon stays at Georgie’s. They spend hours on the couch with Georgie narrating the show on tv, mostly mocking it, the Admiral tucked against his side and the Lieutenant at his feet and Jon is the tiniest bit happy.

The first statement is tucked into the mail, from Elias no doubt, Jon feels the raised braille beneath his fingers and Georgie glances over his shoulder at it and makes a vaguely disparaging sound and says, “Don’t suppose you could send in a letter of resignation?”

“No,” Jon says quietly and Georgie hums.

There is a knock at the door and a familiar voice, Jon tilts his head as the Lieutenant perks up beneath his hand. The door clicks shut and Georgie says, “We have company, it’s alright to come out Jon.”

“Fancy seeing you here,” Melanie King says with a sigh and Jon raises a brow, she huffs and continues, “Was going to take a job at your Archives, but your assistant Tim said it was basically a one-way ticket and I’m not so desperate as for that.”

“That’s-I’m glad,” Jon replies softly running his fingers through the Lieutenant’s fur.

Melanie sighs slow and heavy before she says, “I need a place to stay just until I can find a place of my own.”

“I-I can take the couch,” Jon says glancing in the direction he thinks Georgie might be standing.

“Nah, the accused murderer can keep the guest room, I’ll take the couch,” Melanie says and there’s a hint of a smile to her voice.

“Great, I’ve gone from no roommates to two,” Georgie says and her voice is happy with laughter so Jon knows she’s teasing.

“Hey, I can actually contribute something of value here, I can still get a job and I know ghost stories,” Melanie protests, flopping onto the couch beside Jon. It’s a comfy couch Georgie tells him it’s blue.

“I’ll take that in to account,” Georgie replies and Jon pouts in her direction.

“I brought the Lieutenant,” Jon says and Georgie hums in agreement.

Melanie makes an annoyed sound which quickly turns into cooing as the Lieutenant turns her attention to Melanie. Georgie’s fingers card gently through his hair and Jon hums as she says, “Go read your statement we’ll be here.”

“That reminds me, Jon,” Melanie begins with a little huff and continues, “I’m not going to give you a full statement but I’ll tell you what happened in India.”

“Oh?” Jon says and he can’t help the way curiosity runs through his system sweet like a drug. Melanie makes another annoyed sound; she makes a lot of those and Jon is almost certain she’ll make him wait.

“Not much to tell honestly, was investigating another supposedly haunted war hospital, got shot, hurt like a bitch, but the bullet didn’t show up on any of the scanners,” Melanie replies shifting on the couch as the Lieutenant rubs at his palm with her cold nose.

“You got shot?” Georgie demands taking a few steps closer likely to inspect Melanie for the bullet.

“It’s still there,” Jon says, the words slip out from his lips before he can really think about it, they taste like static on his tongue. He Knows they’re true.

“I’m sorry what?” Melanie questions and she sounds angry, Jon flinches back slightly and the Lieutenant whimpers faintly.

“I-uh it’s still there, in your leg?” Jon replies hesitantly shrinking back into the couch, he continues carefully, “A sectioned surgeon could probably remove it? I think it’s… it’s connected to the Slaughter.”

“Fuck,” Melanie says heartily.

“So, when would be a good day for surgery? I have a friend from university,” Georgie says plastically light like if any of them think too hard about the situation it would be too much.

“I-I’ll think about it, check my schedule,” Melanie says softly, vulnerable. Jon rises to his feet, better to leave the two of them alone for a bit, he waves his statement in the air and with a final wave heads into the guestroom.

His phone opens beneath his fingers with a faint little chirp and Jon presses the contacts button, scrolling through until it reads out the right name. Jon’s thumb hovers over it for a long moment, he hesitates, and finally sends a text.

Jon sets his phone down and pulls out the statement. Time slips away after that, the story spilling out around him, through him.

There are more statements, a few each week, all connected to the Stranger, to the Unknowing. He wonders often, with the Admiral curled in his lap and the Lieutenant at his feet how Tim and Martin are doing.

Martin sends him a few emails every once and a while, mostly commentary on the statements he’s read, the ones Jon can hear inside his head. But Jon picks out the important stuff, the Calliope from the statement of Leanne Denikin has gone missing. It doesn’t bode well.

Then he gets the statement of Sebastian Skinner and Jon latches onto the name Jude Perry like a dog with a bone, it thrums beneath his teeth and he knows what he has to do. A part of him whispers warnings about acting impulsively, Jon ignores it.

He can’t very well go and meet an avatar of the Desolation blind and alone.

Melanie is sitting on the couch, chewing popcorn by the sound and watching some shitty day-time television. Jon settles on the couch beside her and reaches out to steal a piece of popcorn, she snorts and puts a piece in his hands.

“Want to do something dangerous?” Jon asks carefully, Georgie is out at work and it’s just the two of them.

Melanie considers it for a long moment before she hums and replies, “What kind of dangerous?”

“Meeting an avatar that might burn us to a crisp dangerous,” Jon replies with a shrug and continues, “She has information.”

“You have a suicide wish?” Melanie questions, it isn’t a no.

“Don’t think the Institute would let me die,” Jon laughs harsh and sad, it isn’t a no.

“Yeah alright, you would go without me if I didn’t agree,” Melanie says and again she’s not wrong. Jon doesn’t say anything they both know the truth.

“When we go, don’t shake her hand,” Jon says and Melanie places a handful of popcorn in his. They watch the shitty television in silence and Jon resists the urge to open the latest statement from Elias.

They pick a park, wide-open space, more than a few witnesses. Melanie sits beside Jon on the bench, the Lieutenant is at home, and she is telling him about a few dogs in the distance, Jon appreciates it. They both hear the footsteps and a voice, high and hot says, “Well if it isn’t the Archivist and friend.”

“Jude Perry,” Jon says quietly, as absolutely far from hostile as he can make it and still not sound terrified.

Jude makes an assessing sound and Jon can feel her eyes studying him as she says, “I’d heard the rumours, didn’t know it was true. The Eye picking a blind man as the next Archivist, I’d never thought I’d see the day. Gertrude must be rolling in her grave.”

“You knew Gertrude?” Jon asks and the words crackle on his tongue, Melanie’s hand tightens around his arm.

“Don’t try that on me, If I wanted, I could reach through your chest like runny wax, and hold your heart while it cooked. No-one would even notice if I didn’t give you time to scream. Just cause you have someone Slaughter touched doesn’t mean you’re safe,” Jude replies and Jon imagines she is glaring at him, all the heat of an incinerator.

“Sorry,” Jon gasps out not particularly inclined to be burned.

Jude makes a sound of annoyance and says, “I’ll give you my statement Archivist and that’s it.”

And she does.

Jon’s mind makes the connections as the statement settles in his gut, Gertrude working with the Web to stop the Desolation binding herself to Agnes Montague. Agnes herself, a messiah, an avatar.

The words, one must feed their flame, does not leave Jon’s head sticking like a piece of gum to the sidewalk except of far more importance. Jon can feel an answer sitting somewhere behind his eyes, frothing and turning over and over again.

“I-uh?” Jon begins and Jude makes a sound.

“No more questions,” Jude says with a grunt, Melanie is still and silent beside him, birds chirp in the distance a strange dichotomy to the almost searing, humming heat, trapped in a bubble around them.

“I was just going to ask, is there anyone else I could speak to?” Jon questions carefully, there is something dripping onto the park bench and he is wary of tempting fate more then he already has. But he needs to Know.

“If you’re really keen to keep chatting to things that could kill you, I might know someone. We’re not on great terms, he’s closer to your lot than mine, but I know where he… exists,” Jude says with a grunt and then adds, “Mike.”

“Michael? Laughs like a scream, the Spiral?” Jon asks tilting his head, the wound in his shoulder throbs with remembered pain.

“Nah, ozone and scars, hangs with the Fairchilds,” Jude replies.

“Mike Crew,” Jon replies thinking of the few statements he had been mentioned in.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I’ll tell you but it’s going to cost you, Archivist,” Jude says and her tone is half-amused half expectant.

“What?” Jon asks curiously and he can feel Melanie looking at him, her hands are tight around his arm almost cutting off the blood flow. He can hardly blame her.

“Tell me where Gertrude’s body is. I’d normally ask for a handshake, bit rude of you earlier, but you’re already marked so pretty by the Desolation,” Jude says and her tone brooks no argument.

Jon opens his mouth to protest, he doesn’t know where Gertrude is buried, or if she even is buried and not cremated as she likely would have wanted. Unbidden the knowledge slips into his head and he replies, “Kensal Green Cemetery row 525, plot 5.”

“What are you going to do with the body?” Melanie asks her hand is still tight around Jon’s bicep but one of her hands is carefully tracing over the spark scars on his hands.

“Nothing like you’re thinking. Just going to burn the body, an offering,” Jude says and her voice, like in her statement, goes almost soft, almost fond and Jon has no doubt as to who that offering is for.

“Thanks,” Jon says and Jude makes a humming sound and tells him Mike’s location, Melanie writes it down on a piece of paper, the pen scratching into the paper loud in the silence between them. The birds have stopped chirping.

“Sure, you don’t want a handshake?” Jude offers as she rises to her feet, the bench creaks, wood sizzles.

“I’m good,” Jon says and manages to muster a half-smile that he doesn’t quite feel beneath the fear.

“Suit yourself, Archivist,” Jude says and then she is gone her footsteps fading into the distance. Jon slumps in on himself and though he’s sure Melanie won’t appreciate it he leans his head on her shoulder and sucks in a few deep ragged breaths.

“She was badass, scary but badass,” Melanie says with a little giggle, the sort of giddy laughter fear manages to evoke.

“Mhmm,” Jon agrees and is pleasantly surprised when Melanie doesn’t shove him off her shoulder.

“I actually kind of like this, it’s terrifying but a bit thrilling. Want me to come with you to this Mike guy’s place?” Melanie asks and Jon makes a soft sound when she shifts slightly.

“I think I’ll be okay, but you can come with me if I visit another avatar,” Jon says and he can’t help the smile that’s pressing itself onto his face, the breeze is light on his skin, he can feel the sun faint on his face and Georgie shoved him in her parka so he’s warm.

Melanie makes a vaguely disappointed sound as Jon asks, “Found a new job yet?”

“Nah, it’s a bit hard to go back to normalcy after well everything. Might just start my own podcast, collect spooky stories,” Melanie says with a shrug that jostles Jon before she pauses and continues, “Could always do one with fourteen different fears, today’s episode we’re focusing on the Flesh so any of you with a light stomach beware.”

“It would call attention on yourself,” Jon says carefully, not negatively even, a part of him likes the idea. Wonders if it might help the average viewer catalogue their experiences better. A lot of the fear is the absence of knowing if you know it is the Dark or the Flesh it’s not quite as terrifying as the unknown quantity to it all. Or maybe it is knowing that makes it truly terrifying. Knowing that you’re alone, or that you’re lost, or being controlled.

“I’ll probably draw attention to myself no matter what, it’s like Perry said I’ve already been marked. Hey, what does that mean by the way?” Melanie questions turning her head to look down at him.

“I-uh, well it’s sort of like being claimed? I think at least, sometimes it’s scars, like well these,” Jon gestures at his arms where the scars of the aftermath of the Prentiss incident are, “But I think it can be other things?”

“So what? I’m destined to be an avatar of the Slaughter now?” Melanie demands and she sounds… not frustrated, not eager, maybe just curious. Jon is trying not to think about what it means that he’s been marked by so many entities.

“Not necessarily or else all of the statement givers would be entities. If you leave the bullet in your leg, succumb to the Slaughter it’s possible. But Becoming is… I think it’s a difficult process,” Jon replies the words trip from his tongue guesswork until they feel right.

“And you Jon, are you Becoming?” Melanie asks quietly, barely above a whisper.

Jon inhales and replies, “I-I don’t know, I’m not sure I want to.”

Melanie makes a vaguely comforting sound and says, “Come on, Georgie needs groceries.”

“You just want to pick up more vodka for shots again,” Jon says fondly resigned as he rises to his feet and tucks his arm into hers.

She hums and replies, “Maybe I do.”

Mike Crew buzzes him up and opens the door for Jon in silence, a dizzying sense of vertigo washes over Jon and he rests his weight on his stick for a sharp moment, just long enough to plant his feet and suck in a few breaths.

He is led to a couch and hears the sound of Mike bustling around in the kitchen, then his voice, normal but almost echoey or short, “Tea?”

“I’m okay thank you,” Jon says quietly rubbing his fingers against his scars for a long moment until he hears the sound of Mike settling across from him.

“So, what can I help you with Archivist?” Mike asks and Jon can hear the sound of a mug being lifted off the table.

“I-you feature in a few of the statements I’ve read, Ex Altiora, The Boneturner’s Tale,” Jon begins still gathering his thoughts, they spool like wool beneath his fingers.

“Oh? But that’s not what you’re here about is it?” Mike questions and his voice is a warning, the rush of air grows louder around Jon’s ears.

“I… what do you know about Becoming?” Jon questions carefully and feels the moment Mike stills.

“You’re looking for a statement aren’t you Archivist? Don’t know if I feel too inclined to give it,” Mike says and Jon’s expression twists, the man sighs, “Don’t make that face Archivist, and don’t think about compelling me.”

He sounds tired. Jon opens his mouth to protest, or maybe to ask a question, static crackling on his tongue when a rush of vertigo rushes over him. He feels as if he is falling, can hear the air rushing through his ears. He knows he isn’t falling; he knows he’s still sitting on that couch and yet his senses fool him.

“Not too pleasant is it Archivist? The air ripped from your lungs, your mind knows this is false and yet your body thinks it is real. And you can’t even see it,” Mike says casually and Jon tries to gasp for air.

Abruptly, gravity reasserts itself and Jon gasps in thick lungfuls of air and tilts his head back for a long moment. Mike Crew hums studying Jon for a long moment before he says, “You know what, I think I’ll give you my statement.”

Jon listens, catalogues, both Jude and Mike experienced a death of sorts before Becoming. Jon is understandably worried.

“Hm. You know, that was… that was nice. I’m not, not usually the sort for speeches. That was a pleasant change,” Mike says setting a mug on the table with a clink, Jon turns the statement over in his mind, like one might savour the flavour of a meal.

“Thanks,” Jon says softly, his breath still feels tender in his chest and he’s worried that his ribs are bruised.

Mike Crew hums and Jon begins to rise to his feet when there is a knock at the door, the very air stills as Mike asks, “Did you bring anyone else?”

“I-no, it’s a hunter,” Jon gets out then the door slams open and Jon hears the sound of a scuffle, the impact of flesh on flesh, footsteps, pressed voices.

“Is he human?” Daisy asks, and it clicks in his mind.

“Detective?” Jon gasps out even as he’s processing that the Hunt has latched onto him, Daisy will not be satisfied until she has her prey.

“Is he human?” Daisy growls again and Jon tenses a part of him, that very instinctive animal part screams at him to run.

Jon thinks of Mike, knows that the man is a monster, but isn’t Jon? Or he will be, and says quietly, “Yes. He’s human.”

Daisy drops a body to the ground but it is not dead, Jon can still hear the sound of three people breathing, though his own breath is noticeably tight in his lungs.

“Don’t try to run,” Daisy says and the next bit is a blur. Jon knows better than to fight back against a hunter it would only further incite her bloodlust so he stays limp, practically playing dead as she throws him into the back of her car; he assumes it’s her car.

The drive is long, Jon tries to remember each turn if he has the chance to escape. His mind is running a mile a minute trying to escape what feels inevitable, what he Knows is inevitable. Is it sad that he’s not surprised? He doesn’t have many regrets, though he would have liked to say goodbye to Martin and Tim in person.

When the car trundles to a stop there is silence, or at least an almost silence. Jon can hear faintly wind, rustling through leaves, some sort of nocturnal birds, and the vague buzz or hum of insects. There is no sound of the city, nor passing cars. Jon feels utterly alone, trapped.

Daisy is silent for a moment and Jon can’t help but ask, “So, what now? You kill me?”

“Let’s get something clear Sims, I kill monsters, and you’re not human,” Daisy says and then adds, “Bag.”

Jon passes it carefully to her and says, “I-I’m not…”

“Not yet,” Daisy says harshly and he shrinks in on himself, she lists out what’s in his bag and then, “You wanna record this?”

A tape recorder? Jon supposes that is what it must be, he can’t really see for obvious reasons. But now that he listens, he can hear the faint whir of it, the tape spooling along. Jon can’t help the way he says shaky with fear, “Please don’t. I- why are you doing this?”

Ask questions. Distract her. Says something anything.

She slams him against a tree, the bark biting into his spine and cold steel presses against his throat, “You want it to go like this? We’ll go through the voice box then.”

Blood drips hot down his throat accompanied by stinging pain and Jon can’t help the tears slipping from his eyes.

“Daisy, stop!” Basira’s voice and Jon exhales raggedly and slumps to the ground curling into himself and focusing on calming his breathing. He can feel the edges of a panic attack hovering over him as Daisy and Basira bite back and forth.

He hears Daisy say, “He killed two people.”

“I didn’t. Elias did,” Jon gasps out shakily rising to his feet leaning one hand against the tree for support.

“You have any proof?” Daisy demands aggressively, is it Jon’s imagination or can he feel the hot press of her breath near his neck, the blood that has cooled all too quickly sticky on his skin and the bark rough beneath his hands.

“I-I could try to compel him?” Jon says, he feels a hand on his arm and flinches back.

“Sorry,” Basira says and then softly, “Can I touch you, Jon?”

He nods and with a rough swallow continues, “But detective I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything about Elias, he’s… he’s not what he appears.”

“I’ll make that decision, Sims, you just ask your questions,” Daisy says, her voice harsh, Jon nods once in agreement.

The carpet of Elias’ office is plush beneath his shoes, Jon resists the urge to scratch at the plaster Basira pressed gently over his neck as he carefully follows Basira into the office, he still has his stick at least.

“Ah Detective, Ms. Hussain, Jon, I was expecting you,” Elias’ smooth, honeyed voice drifts through the expanse of his office.

“Jon,” Martin’s voice soft and concerned, Jon tilts his head trying to identify where the voice came from. Someone taps on his hand gently and Jon glances upwards, catches a faint hint of Martin’s laundry detergent as he asks, “Are you okay?”

He shrugs glancing in the direction where he thinks Daisy is standing and says, “Par for the course at this point.”

“That’s sad, boss,” Tim says and he isn’t standing close by but Jon can’t help the way his head swivels searching for him.

Jon can feel Daisy glaring at him and he hesitantly steps forward, forces his shoulders back and feels the static crackle on his tongue, flooding through his veins, he demands, “Did you kill Gertrude Robinson and Jurgen Leitner?” the words hum through the air, he feels watched, the expectancy flushing through his system.

Elias hums, a pleased sort of sound and says, “Yes.”

“Why?” Jon asks as Daisy growls and Jon hears the sound of shifting fabric.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, detective,” Elias says, his voice is calm, measured as he continues, “After all what would the police force think of what you’ve done, all the bodies in that one spot, all that evidence. Even sectioned officers are only granted so much leeway. And the police will be here in oh about ten minutes.”

“I’ll kill you,” Daisy growls and Jon can hear Basira step forward.

“Daisy,” Basira says quietly and the attention of the room falls on Basira, heavy and pressing.

Elias chuckles, the sound grating and Jon can feel Elias looking at him, the crackle of static stretching between the two of them as Elias says, “As to why I killed them? I killed Gertrude to protect the Archives, she was going to burn them down, and Leitner would have told you things you weren’t ready for yet Jon.”

“Enough, back off everyone,” Daisy commands, there is the sound of a gun cocking, Martin or Basira tugging Jon back.

“The police will be here in seven minutes detective and they have some rather incriminating evidence against you. But I’m feeling charitable today if Ms. Hussain signs an employment contract, I will call them off.”

“Why?” Daisy growls and whoever’s hand is around his arm tightens, Jon thinks it must be Martin, it’s warm and larger than Basira’s.

“I am the Heart of the Institute, if you kill me, you kill anyone who’s signed an employment contract,” Elias replies, his voice is smug, pleased with victory. There is something _wrong_ with that statement.

“I’ll do it,” Basira says and Daisy makes a sharp sound, concern and maybe desperation, there is the sound of footsteps, clothing shifting and then Basira continues, “I don’t mind, don’t have any jobs lined up.”

She sounds unaffected but Jon Knows she is frightened, like an animal being forced to step into a cage it can’t escape from. Elias hums pleased again and says, “Excellent,” there is the sound of papers being shuffled, a pen scratching across it, and then, “Rosie can you call and tell the police it was a false alarm? Thank you. Detective Tonner, I’ll be seeing you later, the rest of you are dismissed I need to speak with Jon alone.”

Jon feels Martin’s hand tighten around his arm, hesitance thick on the air, Jon forces a smile onto his lips and says softly, “I’ll be fine. I suppose I’ll be coming back to work for a bit, Martin if you could make some tea? I’ve rather missed it.”

“Of course, Jon,” Martin says his voice sad and concerned as the sound of footsteps leaving the room fill the air followed finally by the door clicking shut behind him.

“I’m impressed Jon, you’ve done well,” Elias says his voice satisfied, like a cat that’s got the canary. Jon has the sense that Elias being satisfied is not a good thing.

“Basira wouldn’t die if Daisy killed you,” Jon says instead, the words sit on his tongue and he Knows they are right, in the same way, that he Knows he cannot trust Elias Bouchard.

“Yes, do you know why Jon?” Elias asks, there is the sound of a chair creaking, paper shifting. The room which Jon knows is large feels suddenly unbearably small.

“Because she is tied to the Archives, both separate and part of the Institute, if they killed me, they would be free,” Jon says softly, the words taste like static, but what does static taste like?

“Yes, very good Jon, I know you have questions, but I can’t simply answer them, that is not how we must feed our master, you must search for answers,” Elias says, his voice is closer, and Jon can smell faintly his fancy and probably very expensive cologne.

“And what would the Eye think if I forced you to tell the truth, to tell me a statement?” Jon asks simply, tilting his head to study where he Knows Elias is standing, is staring at Jon with wide pleased eyes. There is something between them, the weights of secret, of knowledge that Jon could have.

“You aren’t quite powerful enough for that yet Archivist, but when you are, feel free to try,” Elias says, almost crooning like ones does when a pet performs a trick rather well. Jon’s lips press into a grimace and he nods once and turns leaving the man’s office. He needs to speak to his assistants, help introduce Basira to… well, everything, and hopefully have some tea.

There is a knock on the door, Jon blearily pulls himself out of the Lieutenant’s fur, there is a statement on the table he needs to go over again, one about a taxidermy shop connected to the Stranger but the temptation to bury his face in the Lieutenant’s fur was too strong.

“I’ll get it,” Melanie says and he can hear her laughing at him as she shifts off the couch, which creaks in protest.

Jon blinks. Right, he is at Georgie’s, she’ll probably complain that he’s brought his work home again, but well Jon still has to reclaim his old apartment and he just can’t find the energy for that. Not when Georgie makes them stick to a routine for cooking, and the Admiral curls on his lap or the apartment isn’t uncomfortably silent.

The door creaks open and Jon listens as Melanie says, “Can I help you?”

“Mike Crew, I need to speak to Jon,” Mike says and Jon bolts upright one hand reaching to latch onto the Lieutenant’s collar.

“Jon?” Melanie asks and Jon frowns considering it for a long moment. Mike has no reason to harm Jon, and he suspects that the reason he’s here is rather the opposite of harmful.

“It’s alright let him in,” Jon says, his voice sounds tired even to himself.

The door creaks open and Melanie says in a low voice, “I have a knife, if you hurt him, I won’t hesitate to stab you.”

Is it weird that Melanie threatening someone for him warms his heart? Mike makes a small noise, either amusement or fear, hard to tell and says, “I’ll take that into advice,” it’s followed by the sound of him settling into the armchair by the tv and continuing, “That looks like it hurt. The hunter?”

“Yes,” Jon replies fingers hovering over where the plaster still covers his neck before he continues, “Though I don’t think I’ll have to worry about her at least for a little while.”

“You never know, Hunters are persistent,” Mike says with a rustle of clothing and then in a softer tone, “And who is this?”

“The Lieutenant,” Jon says with a soft fond smile stroking his fingers through her soft fur, she makes a low rumbling sound, not quite a growl, more of a warning. Jon scrubs a hand over his face and asks, “Why are you here Mike?”

“I wanted to thank you,” Mike says quietly and then his voice thick with emotion, sounding human, he continues, “That hunter would have killed me and buried me beneath the ground. Do you know what that does to someone of the Vast?”

Jon does Know, he wishes he didn’t. Instead, Jon nods once with a frown pulling at the corners of his lips as he says, “It was the right thing to do.

Mike hums and continues, “Still, if you have any questions feel free to ask me Archivist and I’ll answer them if I can. I’ll leave my number with your friend with the knife. Unless you have any questions now?”

Jon has questions, he always has questions, so many he sometimes thinks he’s half-formed of them. But none that Mike can answer at the moment and Jon shakes his head and replies, “Thank you, Mike, none at the moment.”

“Good luck Archivist,” Mike says and rises to his feet, the armchair creaking. There is the rustle of paper as Jon presumes Mike passes his phone number to Melanie and then the click of the door shutting behind him.

“That the avatar you went to see?” Melanie asks as she plops on the couch beside him.

Jon nods and says, “Yes, an avatar of the vast. Have you gotten the bullet removed?”

“Not yet, we’re scheduling it for a few months from now, don’t know when some good old violence might come in handy,” Melanie says flippantly, bumping her shoulder against his.

“Melanie,” Jon says softly leans back and catches the faint hint of her shampoo, something with coconut and mint.

“I know Jon, just until this Unknowing thing is over,” Melanie says looping her arm through his, she continues, “Is it bad that I like it? Like having a reason for my anger. I’ve always had to fight my way to the top, fight to have what I want and it makes it feel right,” she laughs, “Guess I gave you a statement after all.”

Jon carefully traces his fingers over Melanie’s hands, the scars there, the polish on her nails for a moment before he replies, “I don’t think it’s bad that you like it as long as you know you have to get rid of it, what it’s doing.”

“Georgie’s practically strong-arming me into it, Jon, don’t worry, I don’t think any entity would want to deal with an angry Georgie,” Melanie says with a grin and leans over to bump her head carefully against Jon’s.

“Rightfully so,” Jon agrees and lets his mind drift one hand reaching out to tangle in the Lieutenant’s fur as Melanie hums softly under her breath.

“Where are you two going?” Basira questions behind them, Jon pauses his stick tapping against the floor as Daisy huffs beside him. He still feels a tiny drop of fear when he’s in her presence, like any moment she might snap and finish the job, like a dog on a leash; eventually, they’ll bite the hand that feeds.

“Out,” Daisy grunts and then adds, “Going to deal with something.”

“And you’re bringing Jon?” Basira demands her voice is hurt, Jon flinches his hand tightening around his cane at the insult, he understands why Basira is lashing out, Daisy is free to go as she pleases and yet because of her Basira is trapped. It’s still not really an excuse.

“He can ask questions,” Daisy replies, he can hear her shifting beside him, feel the way the tension between the two women stretches and stretches threatening to break.

Basira sighs, a long low sigh and says, “Fine, is there any research you want us to do Jon?”

“Just please keep searching for statements related to the Stranger,” Jon replies and flinches when he feels Daisy’s hand lock around his arm and tug him out of the Archives and into the rest of the basement.

“Sorry,” She says roughly and let’s go, Jon exhales and settles his cane on the ground following slowly behind her, Daisy huffs and asks, “You sure this will work?”

“I-yes,” Jon replies as they step out of the Institute, the intense feeling of being watched fades slightly and a cool breeze brushes against his skin.

Daisy grunts and says, “My car’s five steps ahead.”

Jon tips his head in thanks and follows Daisy to her car, she opens the door for him, and Jon slips inside, the faint scent of leather and alcohol. The car shifts when Daisy settles in the driver’s seat and the radio flicks on with the rumble of the car, the Archers slip from the speakers. Jon wisely decides to say nothing.

As the car trundles out into London traffic Jon can feel Daisy’s attention on him, there is an awkward sort of silence sitting between the two of them and Jon resists the urge to fidget and instead tucks his hands into his sleeves.

They’ve been driving for roughly ten minutes and there’s a lull in the cd when Daisy asks, “How’d it happen?”

“An accident, I don’t remember much,” Jon replies far too used to being asked about it, everyone wants to know, everyone is curious about the poor blind man. He can sense that Daisy is still curious and he shrugs, “It happened when I was quite young.”

“So, this Sarah Carpenter, she’s working with the Stranger?” Daisy questions and Jon exhales relieved that she’s dropped that line of conversation.

“Yes, she’s not even human anymore, not really Sarah Carpenter,” Jon replies and can hear Daisy’s pleased hum as another cd is popped into the car and music fills the small space between them yet again. There is the sound outside the car of a horn honking, the road grinding beneath the tires.

“And they’re looking for this ancient skin or whatever for their ritual?” Daisy questions and Jon nods earning a derisive snort, she continues, “Never thought I would be dealing with shit like this when I first signed on,” Daisy pauses her attention on Jon as she asks, “Why did you join the Magnus Institute?”

“Curiosity,” Jon replies simply, sadly.

Daisy makes a sound of acknowledgement as the car begins to slow entering a residential area, the sounds of traffic are faint now and the music is quiet. The car pulls to a stop and there is the sound of Daisy checking her gun as she says, “We’re here.”

Jon nods and reaches down grabbing his stick, his fingers trail over the interior of the car door until he finds the handle and he pushes the door open. Daisy is already waiting and she murmurs a quick, “Watch out for the curb two steps.”

“Thanks,” Jon says quietly as he steps out of the car and holds out his arm.

Daisy takes it with a huff, ignores the way Jon tenses up and replies, “One of my cousins’ is blind.”

They walk side by side down the street until Daisy draws to a stop, there is the sound of a bell tinkling, the kind shops keep over doors and then Jon is tugged into what he presumes is the taxidermy shop.

The inside of the shop is musty, stale air, and smelling of dust and there is a faint feeling of being watched, different to that of the Eye, and yet Jon can feel the static crackling upon his tongue. He recalls that taxidermy animals often have glass eyes, but eyes nonetheless.

Daisy stalks forward and Jon follows behind his cane tapping along the carpeted floor, she stops and asks, “Sarah Carpenter here? We have a warrant.”

There is the sound of cloth rustling and Jon presumes Daisy is pulling out her badge.

“I’m Sarah Carpenter, how can I help you?” A woman’s voice says it might have once been the voice of Sarah Carpenter, but no longer, whatever is in front of them it is _not_ Sarah Carpenter. Jon swallows and steps forward can feel her eyes on him as static crackles on his tongue.

“You went to the Cambridge Military Hospital with Melanie King correct?” Jon demands, he feels the way the words fizzle on the air.

“Yes,” Sarah replies the words tugged forcefully from her lips.

“What is the Trophy Room for?” Jon asks again, can feel Daisy standing at attention behind him.

“Whatever the Stranger needs it to be, a place to store artefacts,” Sarah replies and there is the sound of shifting before Daisy steps forward.

“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” Daisy warns, there is the sound of a gun being cocked and Jon wonders if Daisy has it levelled at what was once Sarah Carpenter.

“There was a skin stored here, a very ancient skin, what happened to it?” Jon questions tapping his stick carefully against the ground.

“The previous Archivist stole it,” Sarah grounds out, the words are venomous and Jon feels Daisy tug him back a few steps. What happened to it? What did Gertrude do with it? For every question answered Jon feels as if he stumbles on ten more.

“It was meant to be used for the Unknowing correct?” Jon asks.

“Yes, what did you do with it, Archivist?” Carpenter asks her voice is strange, hollow.

“I don’t know,” Jon replies quietly and then Daisy is tugging him back and there is the sound of a gunshot ringing in the heavy silence of the shop.

“She’s gone,” Daisy grunts and then continues, “That was a waste of time.”

“Not entirely,” Jon replies scrubbing a hand over his face as he follows Daisy out of the shop, a cool breeze brushing against his skin, “I think I need to know what Gertrude was doing before she died, mind if I have a smoke first?”

Daisy grunts and Jon pulls out a pack and his lighter, running his fingers over the design embossed on the side, Daisy’s voice breaks the silence, “Can I leave you on your own for a few minutes?”

Jon rolls his eyes, he’s blind, not helpless, and nods inhaling the smoke, tasting it on his tongue and feeling it burn through his lungs. There is the sound of footsteps retreating and Jon tilts his head back smoke drifting from his lips.

“Can I have a smoke Archivist?” A voice asks, close, tinged with laughter and high, too high, like a doll with a voice box.

Jon shakes out the box and passes one to whoever, or whatever is beside him trying to tamp down on the fear bubbling up telling him to flee, to make a scene. Whatever, and he’s certain it’s a what, hums and continues, “Return the skin to us Archivist, you won’t like the results otherwise.”

“I don- How long do I have?” Jon questions his fingers shaking around the cigarette, he takes another drag wishing it would soothe some of the fear tightening each joint of his body.

It laughs, a high sharp sound, slicing through his head and says, “Until I say time’s up. Hop to it, Archivist.”

Then it is gone.

Jon slumps and stubs his cigarette beneath his foot, the fear slowly draining, he can hear the sound of Daisy returning. He Knows it would be a bad idea but he’s tempted to ask if a different cd is an option; it’s not.

They’ve blindfolded him. Of all the possible things they could have done.

Jon is bound in a chair, it’s an uncomfortable sort of chair, digging into the joint of his elbows and the back of his knees, they’ve zip-tied his hands behind the chair and he can feel the strain in his shoulders, muscles bunched and forced to hold that way, they’ve also gagged him after learning the consequences of leaving him ungagged. The blindfold is just unnecessary and Jon thinks it must be some form of cruel mockery.

The room, small, he thinks it is small, is dusty, it smells old, but for the too floral scent of the lotion, he’s been practically bathed in. At what passes for night, when his body tires, he hears things shifting, moving, faint circus music, and he knows he’s not alone.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, has no way to count days and nights. It’s a strange sort of sensory deprivation hell.

The door to the room creaks open and Jon flinches pressing back into the chair and the click, click, of Nikola’s plastic feet dance across the floor and she says cheerily, “Hello Archivist! My just look at your skin, I think you’ll soon be ready for me to wear your skin, how exciting! Shame about the eyes of course but that’s alright Archivist, I have a working pair.”

If Jon could glare at Nikola he would, as it stands, he spits curses from behind the gag, choking on the words and the static that itches to get out. Nikola laughs, that high pitched stabbing sound and says, “None of that Archivist or we’ll have to wash your mouth out with soap, I wonder if Elias, can I call you Elias? Is watching, he can’t see you, just like you can’t see him, what fun!”

Jon grumbles something about useless bosses, where Nikola can shove it, and how he would like to leave please and thank you.

“Silly Archivist, you can’t leave! Well I’ll leave you for now, you must understand so much to prepare for, dances to choreograph, music to arrange,” Nikole says and Jon flinches back at the feel of cool plastic fingers caressing his jaw before it laughs and whirls away its feet clicking against the floor until the door slams shut.

Jon slumps in the chair with a heavy sigh and winces when the motion pulls at his shoulders. He is alone again.

He misses the Lieutenant, wants to run his fingers through her fur, feel her cold nose press against his hand, the way she would flop on him when he was lying on Georgie’s couch. He misses Georgie, misses the sound of her laughter, the faint scent of her perfume, a gentle scent, the way she would always describe whatever they were watching. He misses Martin, who’s tea was perfect, who always took the time to guide him somewhere, who was so kind. Tim, his casual flirtations, the way he never hesitated to help Jon even when he was angry, the callouses on his hands, he even misses Melanie, her sharp tongue, her anger, her wit.

Maybe he’s going to die here.

The thought shouldn’t scare him, sad as it is, Jon should be used to the thought of death by now. And yet, he’s still scared, scared of leaving everyone behind, of being used for the Unknowing, of the nothingness of death.

Who would take the Lieutenant if he died?

Something creaks and Jon stills, every muscle in his body jumping to attention, then laughter trickles through the room, it is laughter like screaming, Michael. The door, Jon assumes it is a yellow door creaks open wider and Michael’s chuckles follow.

“Archivist, I’ve come to kill you,” Michael says cheerily and something sharp dances against his skin and slices through the zip ties binding his wrist, he groans in pain and shakes out his wrists as another sharp… something, slices through the gag over his mouth.

Jon coughs and in a rough voice asks, “Why?”

“I thought you would be able to stop the Unknowing, I guess not, so now I suppose I’ll have to kill you,” Michael says and Jon can feel it watching as Jon tenderly flexes his wrists, his back protesting the movement.

“I- why do you want to kill me?” Jon questions, can taste static on his tongue, crackling through the air.

Something sharp presses on his shoulder and Michael says, “Because I want to. Would you prefer for me to kill you or the circus? I can’t stay long; they’ll be back to check on you soon.”

“Okay,” Jon says quietly, there is a sort of emptiness inside his chest, he rises shakily to his feet and almost immediately crumples. Something that feels not like skin though similar enough wraps around his arms stabilising him for a moment.

“Thanks,” Jon says quietly, is it wrong for him to thank his murderer? Michael makes a strange sound as Jon forces his shaking legs to support him and bares his throat, hopefully it will be over quickly. Georgie will probably take the Lieutenant, Martin will probably be promoted to Archivist, he’ll make a good one.

“Open the door Archivist,” Michael says and guides Jon’s hand to a doorknob, the metal is cool beneath his fingers humming with something _other_. Jon inhales once and turns the knob, or rather he attempts to turn the knob.

“It’s locked,” Jon says quietly and glances in the direction he thinks Michael’s standing in.

“That’s impossible,” Michael snaps and shoves Jon out of the way the doorknob jiggling before the door creaks open.

Michael screams, it is a horrible sound, loud and piercing, Jon stumbles back unsure what is happening. Then there is silence except for the sound of Jon’s ragged breathing, the door in front of him creaks open.

“Hello Archivist,” A female voice says, it is familiar, it is…

“Helen?” Jon questions tilting his head and she laughs, it is not a laugh like a scream, it is a laugh like a migraine, like late-night infomercials.

“Yes, or rather no, I am and am not Helen I suppose its all very confusing,” Helen says and Jon can hear the click of her heels on the ground.

“What happened to Michael?” Jon asks quietly and Helen sighs, the sound is long, drawn-out.

“He wasn’t a good fit for the Distortion, I’m a better fit, but we don’t have time to dilly-dally not when the Circus is so close,” Helen says and then a door creaks open, “Come along Jon, do you trust me?”

“I-why?” Jon questions even as he shakily extends his hand. Helen’s skin is not skin beneath his hands, room temperature and featureless without scars or even palm lines.

“Helen liked you, she trusted you,” Helen says and then she pulls Jon through the door.

Jon cannot see the domain of the spiral but he can feel it. The ground is uneven, every step is off, too high or too low, at one moment there is a heavy breeze, the next nothing but still air, hot, cold, nothing is the same. The only constant is Helen’s arm looped through his, she is too tall and her limbs too long, they walk in silence.

“Here,” Helen says and her voice is quiet, almost uncertain.

Jon turns to face her one hand reaching up till he feels the curve of what might be her cheek, he smiles and says, “Thank you, Helen.”

She smiles, her face shifting, shifting, and shifting beneath his hand and then Jon steps out of the Distortion’s hallways.

“Jon!” Tim’s voice, as Jon begins to tip forward, everything catching up with him at once. Tim’s arms wrap around Jon, tucking him close to his chest, Jon focuses on the sound of Tim’s heartbeat, the way his fingers run up and down Jon’s back soothing the sobs building in his throat.

“Tim?” Martin’s voice and then, “Oh God, Jon.”

Martin’s hands are warm where they carefully check Jon for injuries, he shudders at the phantom sensation of lotion being rubbed forcefully into his skin and it just makes the tears come harder as he tucks his head into Tim’s chest.

“It’s okay Jon, we’ve got you, you’re safe,” Martin says his hands warm on Jon’s cheek. He exhales, tears still slipping down his cheeks, he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s home.

They go to Martin’s apartment, it smells like him, his laundry detergent, lavender, and tea. Martin shows him around his hand warm and gentle around Jon's wrist as he talks about his blue couch and his favourite piece of poetry. Tim is a quiet and solid presence behind him cracking jokes until Jon can almost forget. They curl up on the bed together and Jon listens to the soft words of poetry, to Tim's faint humming and knows he's home.

“Jon, you can’t go travel the world alone!” Martin protests, they’re in the main office of the Archives, he Knows Basira is at the desk she claimed with one of the books from the library, and that Tim is standing beside Jon his arms crossed over his chest.

He frowns and opens his mouth to protest when Tim adds, “We’re not doubting your capability to get around Jon. It’s dangerous right now so close to the Unknowing, and no offence you’re blind.”

“It kind of does sound like you are,” Jon replies under his breath crossing his arms over his chest before he sighs and continues, “Look I’m not sure Elias would even approve the budget for another person, you know how he likes to go on and on about the budget.”

“Then one of us will pay for ourselves, Jon I’m sure we could convince him it’s necessary,” Martin says, his voice is desperate and Jon can imagine him with a flush on his face hands clenched into fists at his side.

“Are you sure one of us couldn’t go in your place?” Tim asks, trying to be the reasonable one, that was Sasha’s role and none of them have been able to fill it well.

“No,” Jon replies shaking his head, “I need to be the one to learn more about Gertrude. Besides, you both can’t compel people much as I hate using it, and no offence but you two can’t protect yourselves, you would just be a liability.”

“A liability?” Martin says his voice high-pitched in offence and Jon shrinks back.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that,” Jon apologises immediately, he’s not good with emotions, with vulnerability.

“We know Jon,” Tim says and his voice is soft for a minute before it hardens as he continues, “But that’s not an excuse for you to go off alone and travel the world Jon.”

“I need you two here, to keep researching, to watch over the Archives,” Jon protests, can’t say out loud that he wants to protect them, that they’ve both suffered enough because of him.

“Jon-,” Martin begins voice soft.

“I could go,” Basira offers and the three of them pause, Jon glances in the direction of her voice as she continues, “I know how to handle a gun, and the way around the law. I could protect Jon, make sure both of us get through security, God knows America has a problem the moment they see a hijab or our skin tone.”

“That would work really well actually,” Martin says with a pleased little hum.

Tim shifts, his shoes scraping against the floor and Jon knows he’s studying Basira for a long moment before he says, “You’ll probably have the best chance of convincing Elias. Jon?”

“I’d appreciate the company Basira,” Jon says carefully with a nod of thanks.

The door to the Archives creak open followed by the heavy thump of Daisy’s steel-toed boots. Silence and then Daisy asking, “What’s this I hear about Sims going world-wide?”

“Investigating a lead from Gertrude,” Basira replies, he can hear the sound of a chair pushing from a desk, the squeak of wheels, followed by Basira in a softer tone, “I’m going with Jon.”

“Basira,” Daisy says her name tenderly, full of concern, pleading, emotions Jon can’t name, can’t quantify, then, “Fine.”

Daisy stomps closer and then leans into Jon’s space, her breath is hot and Jon resists the urge to cover his neck as she says, “If she’s harmed, I’ll kill you Sims.”

“Protect them,” Jon says in agreement tilting his head in Tim and Martin’s direction.

He can hear them protesting but Jon focuses on Daisy who chuckles low in her throat and says, “Deal.”

“Jon are you okay?” Basira questions, they’re in some cheap motel, the sheets are rough beneath his fingers and it smells faintly of mould, cigarettes, and sex. He can’t get what happened to Gerard Keay out of his head, what Gertrude did to him, it loops over and over in his head. Jon groans pitifully pressing his head further into the pillow as the bed dips with Basira’s weight, she asks, “Do you have any idea what it could be?”

“S-something to do with the… with the Archives, I-I feel… feel like I’m hungry?” Jon replies blearily and turns his head in Basira’s direction.

She makes a soft sound, not a particularly comforting sound and asks, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Unless you have a statement you want to give?” Jon questions his voice still muffled into the sheets, he wishes the Lieutenant was here, that he could bury his face in her fur. He misses his dog, has barely had any time to see her with the Unknowing.

“Jon,” Basira says his name carefully and then continues, “You can’t just…”

“Can’t what Basira?” Jon blinks knows that when he looks at someone with his eyes its unsettling. He laughs bitter and sad as he continues, “The Eye has made me monstrous and I could’ve turned back at any time, could have told my endless curiosity no, now… now like Perry said we all must feed our gods,” Jon laughs, it’s a desperate choking sort of laugh as he finishes quietly, “I don’t want to be a monster.”

“You’re not,” Basira says with a sigh and her fingers run gently through his hair for a moment before she continues, “You’re not a monster and neither is Daisy. You’re human, you make mistakes, you have friends and family. The supernatural aspect doesn’t make you any less human, your choices do.”

“Thanks,” Jon says into the pillow tears pricking at his eyes and then he adds, “Understanding Mandarin is still pretty weird.”

Basira nods and says, “Yeah it is, reading a book that’s not in braille and is also in Mandarin is weird but I’ve made peace with it,” she pats him on the shoulder when there is a knock on the door. They both tense and Basira reaches over and grabs her gun, the metal cold where it brushes against Jon’s hand as she cocks it and rises silently to her feet.

Jon hears the door creak open and then a male voice, “Delivery for Mr. Sims.”

Basira says something quietly back and then the door swings shut and the sound of Basira’s footsteps draw closer, something thumps onto the bed near his head and she says, “Looks like you’ve got mail and it's from Elias. I don’t trust him.”

“You shouldn’t, he hoards knowledge and only doles it out at the right time,” Jon mumbles into the pillow with a frown, he knows he sounds petulant but he feels awful so that’s fine.

Jon pushes himself up with a huff and pulls the package towards himself skimming his fingers over the envelope before he peels it carefully open. There’s a note tucked inside which reads simply, _to tide you over_ , followed by a statement.

“That’s pretty manipulative, any idea what his ends are?” Basira questions taking a few steps closer.

Jon pauses considering it for a long moment before he replies, “The Eye has a ritual, he’ll… he wants to attempt it I think.”

“And he’s manipulating you into it,” Basira says her voice hard before she sighs as Jon unfolds the statement, “Nothing we can do now and I suppose that answers that hypothesis,” Basira says and there is the sound of her footsteps on the carpeted motel floor before she continues, “I’ll leave you be while you read. You think you’ll be ready to head to the Usher Foundation tomorrow?”

“I should be,” Jon says with a half-smile and then asks, “Be careful, I think that officer is still following us. Oh, and chips please?”

He can feel Basira staring at him for a long moment before she says, “I’m not even going to question your weird psychic stuff anymore. Any preference?”

“Probably for the best. And plain please, thank you Basira,” Jon replies running his fingers carefully over the braille of the sheet.

Basira huffs in a fond manner and says, “Weirdo,” the door clicks shut behind her and Jon is alone.

The hunters are a surprise, though at this point with Officer Mustermann dying on the ground a pleasant one. Jon’s mind quickly connects Trevor Hubert and Julia Montauk to the statements they’ve appeared in as the final gunshot rings through the air.

Basira is tense beside him, Jon knows she has her gun in her hands and is watching the two hunters warily. Jon wonders if she can see the similarities between them and Daisy, the marks the Hunt leaves on its avatars.

“Think an axe should do it?” Trevor asks and then adds, “We’ve got one in the trunk.”

Julia hums and he can hear the sound of the trunk being popped, Jon doubts even a particular vicious axe murder would put Mustermann down, he Knows that it is one of the anatomy students from Dr. Elliot, the Stranger has no weakness other than to be Known and perhaps the Desolation.

The trunk shuts with a slam and is quickly followed by the sounds of brutal axe murder. Basira makes a disgusted sound beside him and leans closer to Jon, she is warm in the chill afternoon air and Jon leans into the contact.

“Put it in the trunk,” Trevor states and then follows, “You two in the backseat.”

Basira opens the car door and guides Jon inside with a murmured, “You have an unfortunate precedent for being kidnapped.”

“It’s really not my fault,” Jon says sadly as the car shifts with the weight of two more people entering the car followed by the doors slamming shut with a bang.

“You know why that thing’s following you?” Julia asks as the car rumbles to life and some sort of classic rock blares out of the speakers, he can feel Julia studying him as she adds, “Don’t see why it would attack a blind man.”

“I’m not certain,” Jon says quietly glancing in the direction of the trunk.

“Suppose we can ask it when it reforms, decide whether to kill you or not,” Trevor says casually as if murdering two people isn’t anything unusual to them, Jon rather suspects it isn’t. Basira is stiff next to him, calculating the odds and knowing they’re not great.

Jon pauses for a moment considering it before he replies, “I think it's after me because I’m trying to stop the Stranger’s ritual.”

There is silence in the car for a moment before Julia snorts and says, “What they all circle up and sacrifice a virgin?”

“More end of the world sort of ritual?” Jon replies with a frown dragging his hands carefully over his jeans and focusing on his breathing.

“You might want to speak to Gerard then,” Trevor says with a laugh.

“Gerard Keay, I thought he was dead?” Jon questions as something thumps in the trunk and Basira sits stiff beside him.

“He is,” Julia replies as the car bumps over a dirt road for a few minutes before coming to a rough halt, Julia says, “Come on in, try to run and well we love a chase.”

As Basira helps him out of the car Jon can smell the faint scent of nature, that particular dense forest scent as he asks, “I thought you only hunted monsters?”

“Line grows blurrier every day,” Trevor replies as Basira passes Jon his stick, he tips his head in thanks and follows her up a few porch stairs and to what he assumes is a cabin.

“So, what, now we just wait for its lungs to reform?” Basira demands as the door shuts behind the Hunters, Jon settles gingerly on a couch which smells faintly of beer and musk, he can hear Muskermann attempting to regrow his lungs.

“Sure,” Julia grunts and there’s the sound of a chair dipping.

“You could always give another statement?” Jon says with a tilt of his head, can feel Basira tense beside him and mentally apologises to Daisy, but at least she isn’t hurt.

“Haven’t given you all enough?” Trevor says followed by a disturbing squelching sound.

“Things have changed, you’re not dead,” Jon replies with a shrug and Trevor laughs, Julia snorts beside him.

“How about the first time you two met? Might as well pass the time,” Jon suggests.

“Yeah okay,” Julia says, a tape recorder clicks on in the background and then she begins, “I tried to live a normal life. I really did…”

“You’re sure that reading that statement will kill it?” Julia asks with a huff, she’s leaning against a wall he thinks and Jon can feel the weight of her eyes on him, promising to uphold the threat if it doesn’t work out.

“Yes, Knowing is the antithesis to the Stranger, a good deal of fire will also probably help,” Jon replies running his fingers carefully over the book in his hands, the leather is smooth beneath his fingers, the smoothness of age and wear, almost soft.

“And you’re sure you’ll be fine on your own Jon?” Basira questions pointedly Jon just nods, he Knows he’ll be able to read the page regardless of his sight.

Julia just hums and says, “We’ll leave you alone then, the last page in the book. You better hope your statement works.”

Then the door slides shut and Jon is alone but for the book in his hands. He pauses for a moment, just inhaling and exhaling past the fear that’s been dodging his steps for the past few hours before he turns and flicks through the pages until he reaches the very back.

He reads, “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs… And so, Gerard Keay ended.”

“You’re new… and yet a bit familiar have we met before?” A voice states, it is young, male, reminds Jon of albums from his youth, there’s a strange echoey quality to it, almost ethereal, like bad camera footage on one of the ghost hunting shows, the voice continues, “Did you kill them?”

“Gerard Keay?” Jon questions tilting his head and the ghost makes an affirming sound, he continues, “I don’t know perhaps? Kill who?”

“The Hunters,” Gerard pauses for a moment before he blinks and says, “You’re blind.”

“Yes,” Jon says with a long-tired sigh.

“Suppose someone read the page for you?” Gerard questions not derisively just curiously.

“No,” Jon replies and then adds, “Also the Hunters aren’t dead.”

“How did you…?” Gerard questions before there’s a creaking sound and in an annoyed tone, “I’m not going to be some sort of monster manual, whatever you need I can’t help you.”

“I’m the Archivist,” Jon says quietly and without thinking pulls out his pack of cigarettes and offers one to Gerard who huffs a sad laugh.

“When did she die?”

“One year after you, Elias,” Jon says in lieu of explanation as he lights his cigarette and inhales.

“Course, wouldn’t have expected her to go out peacefully, and now you’re following in her footsteps a blind Archivist, how’s that working out?” Gerry says with a huff of laughter.

“I’m trying, hard to follow what Gertrude left behind,” Jon says with a shrug then continues, “I’ve been making due. We’re trying to stop the Unknowing.”

“No,” Gerry says quietly, the word is solid and hard sliding into the pit of Jon’s stomach like ice-cold dread.

“Why?” Jon demands and the words crackle with static on his tongue, he wonders if compulsion works on the dead, with a slip of what someone once really was.

“I’m a book, what do I care if the world ends. If you want me to tell you what I know, burn my page. You don’t understand what it’s like, it’s painful, to be dead and not, promise and I’ll tell you,” Gerard says an ultimatum that sits heavily between the two of them.

“Okay, but only if you don’t mind a bit of a wait?” Jon says quietly.

For a moment there is shocked silence from Gerry before the ghost laughs and replies, “Yeah, think I’d like to be burned in England anyways. Alright ask your question Archivist.”

“How do we stop the Unknowing?”

“Don’t know,” Gerard replies nonchalant and Jon opens his mouth to protest when he laughs, it’s a nice laugh, probably at Jon and continues, “Gertrude figured you could delay a ritual but its sort of inevitable right? But during the ritual itself, it’s vulnerable.”

“How?” Jon questions carefully.

“Dunno, Gertrude had her ways. But well, not long before I ended up in the hospital, she told me that if something got her first, I was… There’s a storage unit on an industrial estate up near Hainault. She said she rented it under the name Jan Kelly, and hid a key for it somewhere in the Archives.”

“I think Tim found it,” Jon says before continuing, “And whatever’s in there will probably stop the ritual.”

“Probably,” Gerard replies.

“Well, nothing ventured nothing gained I suppose,” Jon replies and pauses for a moment before asking, “Is there anything you could tell me about Gertrude, about the Eye’s ritual, or Elias Bouchard?”

“Huh, well the Eye’s ritual is The Watcher’s Crown, Gertrude already knew how to stop that one she said,” Gerard replies almost curiously.

Jon frowns and speculates, “Probably why she was trying to burn the Archives down.”

“She did love her fire,” Gerard agrees and continues, “As to Elias Bouchard, don’t trust him, he isn’t what he seems, Gertrude said he could see out of any representation of any eye, photos, jewellery, you name it, always said something was suspicious about the transition from James Wright to Elias, course she didn’t confide much in me kind of like my mum in that way, both of them ambitious, driven,” Gerard pauses studying Jon intently for a long moment before he says, “Suppose you want a statement?”

“I’d appreciate it,” Jon says carefully processing the information and trying to fit it into what he knows. He has puzzle pieces, marks, the Panopticon, the Watcher’s Crown, Elias Bouchard, the Archivist, he tilts his head and says, “Statement of Gerard Keay…”

When Gerard is finished it’s quiet between them and the ghost sighs, “When you get back to London, burn my page please.”

“I will Gerard,” Jon promises.

“Gerry,” Gerard says and then amends, “Always wanted my friends to call me Gerry.”

“Goodbye Gerry, I dismiss you,” Jon says and feels a cool rush of air and Knows Gerry is gone. With a slow sigh, he folds the page and tucks it carefully into his pocket and shuts the book. It’s time to go home.

“What are we looking for boss?” Tim yells his voice bounces and echoes off the walls of the storage room, which Martin says is filled with boxes, Jon is sitting on one of the boxes near the entrance practically useless in this endeavour.

“Anything that could be used to stop the Unknowing, from what I know of Gertrude probably something fire-related, also a really old skin,” Jon replies and hears a clang as someone drops something heavy and metal on the ground.

“How _was_ your trip to America?” Daisy questions from further in the storage unit.

“Informative and terrifying,” Jon replies shifting on the box as he adds, “So, the usual at this point.”

“I thought this was going to be a normal job,” Martin laments from further within the storage unit accompanied by a groan. Jon makes a sympathetic sound, though he can’t say he ever expected a job at the Magnus Institute to be normal, he didn’t expect this.

“I think I’ve found something,” Basira voice is close and the sound of boxes shuffling stops as she continues, “Looks like explosives, lots of them, enough to blow up a whole street.”

“How did she get them through customs?” Tim demands followed by the sound of footsteps as everyone shuffles over to look at the box of explosives. Jon wonders for a moment if he is sitting on a box of explosives, the Eye reassures him he is not.

“Probably, one of her contacts,” Daisy huffs and then, “Let’s check the other boxes.”

“I think I found the skin Jon,” Martin says a few moments later followed by the sound of footsteps, Basira makes a sound from deep within her throat as Martin continues, “It’s rather tattered and uh burned. So, I guess we don’t have to worry about that.”

“What is up with Gertrude’s obsession with fire?” Basira questions as she moves another box, Jon thinks they’re putting all the explosives together.

“She was tied to Agnes, the messiah of the Desolation, it could have something to do with that,” Jon suggests and then continues, “Or she’s just a pyromaniac which is also a plausible option considering everything.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Tim says with a huff, as another box is moved Tim questions, “So, what’s the plan boss? Set up a bunch of explosives, remote detonation? Hire an assassin to murder our evil boss, not you, the other one?”

“These have to be detonated within a certain proximity,” Daisy says with a grunt as another box is placed on the ground.

“We also have to time it precisely, to the moment when the ritual is vulnerable. As for dealing with Elias,” Jon pauses and scrubs a hand over his face, they’ve talked about ways to deal with him, discarded and recycled ideas and still, this is the best they have, “For now we need to limit the power he has, the only way I can see at the moment unless we make a deal with another avatar… which is a possibility I suppose, is jail. But that means two of us will have to stay behind.”

“Why two people?” Martin questions near Jon and he resists the urge to lean into his voice.

“One to distract him, one to get the proof,” Jon replies and then pauses hesitating for a moment, he trusts them, he continues, “Whoever is going to get the proof, I need you to search his office, see if you can’t find the tapes he has from Gertrude, anything that might hint at his plans or the Watcher’s Crown.”

“And who’s staying?” Basira asks before continuing, “Jon you should stay behind.”

“I agree,” Tim says and Jon muffles a frustrated frown behind clenched teeth.

“I need to be there, besides… besides, I’ll be our best shot if we do get trapped in the Unknowing,” Jon replies and then continues softly, “Tim do you believe you can handle coming?”

“Yeah, I won’t forsake this for revenge,” Tim replies his voice is solid and strong.

“I’ll stay and distract Elias,” Martin volunteers hesitantly a box shifting in his arms.

“You’ll have to be careful Martin, he’s dangerous, he can plant information in your mind, something that’s true that you might not want to hear,” Jon replies thinking carefully of the risks they are all accepting, the ones they’re all taking.

“It’s okay Jon, I know,” Martin responds and then one of his warm hands is pressed gently to his cheek. Jon leans into the contact with a soft hum.

“Basira you should stay behind,” Daisy says and before Basira can protest she continues, “You’ll Know what to look for and Elias doesn’t suspect you like he does me.”

“I-fine,” Basira says quietly sounding as if she wishes could say anything else, finally she says, “And what if you don’t come back?”

“Then I expect both of you to figure out who the next Archivist is and how to stop the Watcher’s Crown, though I suspect if I die it’ll put a wrench in Elias’ plans,” Jon replies with a shrug, knowing he sounds far too nonchalant about his own death. He’s been threatened over twenty times in the last six months, he feels it’s a little bit reasonable.

“Jon,” Martin says, just sad, so sad, Jon hates making Martin sad.

“We’ll survive,” Jon says it like he means it, likes he believe it even as he can’t shake the sinking feeling that no matter what the outcome is something is going to go horribly wrong. No plans survive first contact and he can only pray this one will survive well enough.

Jon holds Gerry’s page carefully, he runs his fingers gently over the page, knows the words printed there, he thinks he remembers why Gerry sounded the slightest bit familiar, it is too late now though he supposes. Part of Jon is tempted not to burn the page, to harness whatever knowledge Gerry might have, but Jon made a promise.

Pulling out his lighter Jon tips his head with a soft sigh and flicks the lighter, there is the faint sound of the spark catching and Jon presses the flame to the paper. The paper hisses as Jon places it carefully on the linoleum floor. The scent of smoke fills the air and Jon Know Gerry is finally at rest.

A knock on the door, Tim, Jon thinks if the rhythm is any indication, the door pushes open a moment later and Tim’s voice is amused as he says, “Trying to emulate Gertrude?”

“A favour to a friend,” Jon replies with a small smile as Tim shuts the door behind him and settles in the chair across from Jon’s desk.

“I think I’m ready to make my statement,” Tim says softly and Jon pauses.

“Are you sure?” He asks carefully, reaching out across the desk to tangle his fingers with Tim’s.

“Yeah, I’m ready, want to get it off my chest before everything goes down,” Tim says his voice sad and tired before he continues, “And afterwards we’re going to go home and Martin’s going to make us pasta and we’re going to watch a movie.”

“Okay,” Jon says with a soft smile as a tape recorder clicks on in the background, “Statement of Timothy Stoker regarding…”

The air is tense, every sound, every twitch coils beneath Jon’s skin as he listens to Tim’s soft grunts as they set up the explosives, he can hear the thump of Daisy’s heavy boots on the floor in the distance, the detonator is warm in his hands.

Everything feels _wrong_ , stretched too much and snapped back wrong, Jon can’t help but replay the statement Elias had shown them all before they set off, the terror of the previous Unknowing, reality itself being unmade, being unknown. He’d agreed readily enough to sending the three of them and keeping Basira and Martin back, Jon can only pray that whatever he’s planning it won’t hurt them.

“Any idea when this is supposed to start?” Daisy asks, she’s closer and Jon starts his hand tightening around his stick thinking of running his fingers through the Lieutenant’s fur in case it’s the last time he sees her. Thinks of Georgie so sad and yet understanding her hands warm on his cheeks.

“You’ll know,” Jon says quietly and then adds, “We should hurry, the sooner we place the explosives the sooner we can get out before it starts.”

“I’d rather not be caught up in it all,” Tim says his voice teasing and light to hide the way it trembles underneath with fear as Tim inhales long and slow before continuing, “We’re almost done, boss.”

Jon nods his mouth is dry, he can’t shake the image of the night before curled up in between Martin and Tim, just listening to Martin say soft scraps of poetry, his hands tight in Jon’s shirt like he never wants to let go. God, Jon doesn’t want to die, he’ll do it and he won’t hesitate, but he doesn’t want to die.

The sound of circus music, which had been a dull backdrop to the shifting movement of both Daisy and Tim, begins to pick up in both volume and speed. The very air begins to feel like molasses stretching out too weird, too much, not enough. Like all the world is filtering into his body and it is all wrong.

“It’s starting,” Jon says softly and rises to his feet, one hand wrapped around his stick and the other around the detonator, he continues, “We should leave now.”

“Will this be enough?” Tim asks and Jon focuses, pulls at that static part of him, something twinges a piece of knowledge that he can’t quite pull free even as he replies, “Yes, it will be enough. We need to move now. Daisy, you’re certain the entrance is still in range?”

“Should be yeah,” She says and then Tim loops his arm through Jon’s and begins to walk forward. Jon follows, can hear Daisy beside them, the world trips beneath his feet and he focuses on the warm contact of Tim’s arm when he pauses.

“Tim?” Jon questions hesitantly, tightening his hand around Tim’s arm. Fear is bubbling up in his chest, souring through his veins with the taste of bile on his tongue.

“It’s through there,” Tim says softly and then he takes a few unsteady steps forward, Jon tries to tug him back, tug him away so they can just walk out. It doesn’t work.

“Daisy get out of here, find Basira!” Jon calls out desperately as a door is flung open with a bang.

Then everything goes wrong.

If Jon was asked to describe the Unknowing, he wouldn’t be able to. The closest he could perhaps get would be to describe it as a ringing sense of _wrong_.

Jon and that is his name, isn’t it? He Knows his name is Jon, that is his name, his. There was a point, yes, Jon does not have eyes to see, but he Knows his hand, what is a hand? It is attached to… his hand? His hand is connected to his body, does he have a body? And that, he Knows is connected to Tim.

Who is Tim? Tim is sharp laughter, yes, and scars, yes, and a voice high and pitched saying, “Hello Archivist I see you’ve made it, welcome, welcome!”

No, that is not Tim, the Tim who is beside him is warm, there is something, someone? On his other side and they are smooth, smooth plastic, no they are too many sensations, ice cream melting, wet paint, water.

Tim, yes Tim. Why is Tim here? Why is Jon here? What… what is happening?

“Oh, silly Archivist,” the not-Tim, no that is the not-Sasha, the thing that is not Tim and is not Jon laughs and says, “It’s a shame I couldn’t wear your skin. I was going to wear dear Gertrude’s but somebody burned it. It’s a shame you can’t see,” a laugh that is a scream, that is a cackle, that is water slapping the ground, “this Archivist. It is so beautiful.”

“Jon!” Tim says it must be Tim, he knows that voice, he loves that voice, loves it when it bounces off tunnels, late at night pressed into his shirt. There is another voice he loves, another person he loves, they are what is beautiful.

This… whatever this is, it is not beautiful.

Tim and it must be Tim because it is warm tightens his grasp around Jon’s arm and he _opens his eyes_.

The world is a turbulent storm of greys, blacks, and whites, rushing and colliding against each other like Jon imagines particles might. But there beside him Tim’s voice and warmth and in front of him Nikola, so horribly misshapen, so not, so undone, unmade, unshaped, uncreated, unwrought, unfamiliar, unknown.

There is something in his hands. A button yes, Jon Knows it is important, not as important as Tim.

“Jon, do it!” A voice, Tim’s voice, he turns away from that which is not Known, he wraps his body around Tim, feels arms press at his sides, trying to push him off, there is the sound of screaming, the music reaching a crescendo.

Jon laughs and says, “Haven’t you heard the Great Grimaldi’s in town,” and then quieter, “I’m sorry Tim, look after Martin.”

He presses the detonator and Knows nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the small differences that are really going to shape the next chapter. Fun fact, 525, plot 5 spells out Eye in accordance with the alphabet. Comments are always appreciated, till next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I'm here with the final chapter. A lot of the changes from the last few chapters really steamroll here. Warnings as always for typical TMA stuff. Read on and enjoy!

What is or what once was or what will be Jon watches.

He… it? He is nothing but eyes, they cover every inch of his body does he have a body? There is nothing but eyes, he is eyes and he watches.

Watches, as a woman eats each key on her keyboard, the plastic crunching slick with blood beneath her teeth, as a room full of heart upon the table beat out of time and a man stares in abject horror, a woman watches as a body slowly sticks itself back together. It-Jon watches, it watches, and watches, and watches, and the Eye above all, that Sees all, that Knows all, watches him.

And then a voice, a familiar voice, a voice that Jon Knows.

“Hello Jon, I-I know it’s been a few days since I’ve been able to visit, but well…” a sigh and then an inhale, “My mum she… she uh passed away. I should feel sad, shouldn’t I? She never really liked me, heh Elias made that clear, always saw too much of my dad in me, but she was still my mom and now’s she’s gone and I just feel numb. I… maybe she’s been gone for a long time, sitting there in that retirement home, I never liked it always smelled bad and after that one statement well.

“Still, I’m sorry I haven’t been by in a few days Jon, it must get lonely here, though Georgie says she visited on Friday and she brought the Lieutenant, apparently the poor girl won’t stop whimpering, she wants you to wake up. I want you to wake up. I miss you Jon, miss the sound of your cane tapping on the floor, the way you always lean in and smell us and then pretend not to, it’s okay I don’t mind, I miss making tea for you. We both miss you; Tim is… he’s doing alright, he’s managing, we’re not really sure what to do without you. We’re good together but we need you it’s like… it’s like those little snack things you give to kids? The pretzel sticks and cheese thing, we’re like the sticks I guess, good on our own, but the cheese just makes it better,” a pause, a bitter laugh, and then, “And I call myself a poet. Still, I can’t imagine how Basira is handling it, she seems fine you know? But she doesn’t even have a body to bury.”

“Peter Lukas is running the Institute now; I don’t know if I told you that before. I met him once while you were in America, I don’t like him much, he’s just… I don’t, he reminds me of the worst time in my life. He’s been trying to recruit me, asking me to be his assistant with promises that he can protect the others, wants me to join the Lonely. I-I couldn’t do that to Tim, not with you in a coma Jon, I’m not that cruel. Still, I can’t help but consider his offer especially after the Flesh attacked. Did I tell you about that?

“I’m so forgetful these days, always have been, my mother she used to chide me about it. We were lucky though that Georgie and Melanie decided to visit that day, though you’d probably say it wasn’t luck. The Flesh attacked, led by Jared Hopworth from the uh statement with the Boneturner’s Tale? He had this army of… creatures with too many limbs, they came from the tunnels it was horrible. Melanie, she got the bullet out two days ago? Maybe Georgie told you. But she still had it then and she went at Hopworth with a knife, stabbed him a few times for good measure. Georgie was kind of badass too, she just took a gun from Basira and started shooting. I’m not ashamed to say I hid for the most part. Helen also helped; she’s been uh… working with us? Helping us? We don’t really know her motives but she, Georgie, and Melanie get on really well.

“It sure seems coincidental and I can’t help but think Elias is involved. It’s uh actually about Elias that I wanted to talk to you about Jon,” the voice pauses for a moment, the sound of rustling clothing, and then continues, “You were right Jon. God, I… Uh knew you were right but still. Basira brought us in to the tunnels yesterday, we all could tell she’s been sitting on something you know? Not just Daisy. When she broke into Elias’ office, she didn’t just get the proof, you were right some of Gertrude’s files were in there, there were tapes in there. Apparently, she says a few tapes just appeared in the room? They were blank and she used those to record what was on the tapes so Elias wouldn’t know… I hope he was distracted.

“But that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. There was a tape for you, or whoever the new Archivist was supposed to be it… Gertrude wanted it to be Sasha,” a rough inhale, “God I miss her too. Gertrude, she said that Elias, he can see through any representation of an eye, a drawing, a painting, a necklace, that’s how he always knows what’s going on. But that’s not even the coup de gras,” a wet laugh, “Did you know that Elias Bouchard was apparently a pothead, he was also rather young when he got promoted. He-uh, the Elias we know isn’t actually Elias Bouchard… it’s Jonah Magnus. Yeah, that one, hard to believe. I mean still, this job manages to surprise me…

“Gertrude was investigating the tunnels, she found his original body, it’s still down there in, what does Tim call it? The uh Panopticon? Yeah, that’s it. That’s where his original body is, Basira thinks that why Gertrude tried to burn down the Archives, Tim thinks it’s tied to the Eye’s ritual. Oh, and you know how we’re all bound to the Eye? Can’t quite, can’t leave? There’s a way out though none of us are desperate enough to take it right now. You have to… uh, you have to blind yourself. I’m not even sure how that would work with you Jon if you could do it. We uh… we need you, Jon. Right now, we’re just recording statements, well I’m recording most of them, sometimes I think I can feel the Eye, we don’t know if there’s going to be another ritual. Oh, on that note I-apparently, we didn’t actually need to stop the Unknowing?

“For some reason, Gertrude says that the rituals will fail on their own. There was another ritual a few years back, the Dark? She didn’t do anything and it still failed. Which means… which means Daisy died for nothing and you’re here in a coma,” a long sigh, “I miss you Jon. I uh don’t have a statement for you today sorry, I was in a rush got distracted with everything. I think Tim will bring one tomorrow? I don’t know if its even helping, but well Basira told us about what happened in America so…

“I should uh… I should really get going, my lunch break’s almost over and Lukas vanished someone the other day for a small dispute,” a sharp nervous laugh, followed by a sigh, “I… wake up soon Jon. Please.”

Then the sound of shuffling, footsteps, a door clicks shut.

Jon watches and is watched. He is Known utterly, fully, thoroughly by the Eye, by the Ceaseless Watcher. It is terrifying to be so utterly Known. It is also strangely comforting, the Eye passes no judgement, it only Beholds Jon, holds him within its secular gaze, Jon can feel the weights of its attention. Fathomless, ceaseless, filling Jon, everything that makes Jon, every particle, every atom, with Knowing and being Known. He belongs, wholly and utterly.

Another voice, different, unfamiliar and yet Known, “Hello Jon, can I call you Jon? Archivist is rather stuffy but well I suppose you _are_ the Archivist now. Or you will be, if you wake up, you’ll have made your choice. Did I make a choice? Hard to say, what I do know, and you’ll pardon me if I’m a bit clumsy don’t talk to people much these days, suppose you can’t really talk back. What I do know Jon, is how I tried to run away, how I tried to escape it. I’ll give you the statement, but I’ll get to the point beforehand. Once you reach a certain point, Jon, there’s no turning back, there is no being the thing formerly known as again. But you can still be human, or act like it well enough to suit your own interests. But first, you have to make a choice, we all made it, even when the options were bad and worst, we made that choice. Right now, it’s your turn. Make your choice Jon.

“But first a statement. How does it go? Statement of Oliver Banks regarding running away…”

When the voice is gone and Jon, who is just eyes, is alone, never alone, not really, he glances into the Eye which sees all, which knows all, and he makes his choice.

Jon wakes up.

Jon sits quietly through the doctor’s examinations, their questions, the nurses pinching and prodding at him. Physically, as far as anyone can tell, Jon is fine, in perfect health really. Jon isn’t sure that he feels fine, rather he feels almost as if he’s been squeezed out of his body, run through a food processor and filtered back. Same contents, yet irreparably different.

He can still feel the Eye, feel its attention on him, that little tingle in the centre of your spine that lets you know you’re being watched. If Jon doesn’t focus on the world outside of his mind, the sensation of the rough sheets, the beep of a hospital monitor he can see statements playing behind his eyes, an endless loop begging for more.

They’ve left now, or sometimes ago, time itself feels fuzzy to Jon, more so than it ever did before. He tries to count the seconds in breaths but it isn’t quite working. Hospitals are so _loud_ , they’re not still with imminent death or sickness as one might suspect. Instead, they’re a roiling sea of noises, footsteps passing by his door, heavy tread or light, a voice crackling over an intercom about codes, summoning people to the ER or rooms. The sound of doors in the same hallway opening, someone dropping something, things being lifted and set down.

Then a door, the one to his room opens, its hinges lightly protesting the movement.

“Jon,” Martin’s voice and that single word, his name, he feels as if he’s forgotten it, suspended and tender as if Jon is worth more than the stars itself and then breathlessly Martin continues, “We came as soon as we heard.”

He must not have been awake for long then. It feels like a long time.

There is a warm hand with familiar callouses wrapping around his own and someone settles in a chair presumably placed at his bedside a broken voice, “God Jon,” a pause soft and broken, the sound of muffled sobbing, “I-we didn’t know if you were ever going to wake up.”

“I did,” Jon says quietly reaches out and waits until Tim’s hand wraps around his, long fingers with their bumpy knuckles, Jon pauses carefully running his fingers over the strange texture covering some of Tim’s skin, it is familiar, scars, new ones.

“What do you uh… what do you remember Jon?” Martin asks gently, his hand tightening around Jon’s own.

What does he remember? Too much, it all feels crammed into his head, the breadth of what he could Know.

“Everything,” Jon replies shortly and then with a small sigh continues, “I remember the Unknowing as much as one can remember, I remember pushing the detonator and then nothing.”

For a long moment, there is silence, Tim’s hand is tight around Jon’s almost to the point of pain but he doesn’t mind, doesn’t say anything just holds back, let’s Tim’s fingers hover over his pulse as he asks, “Were you- were you conscious during the coma?”

“Sometimes, I could hear voices. But most often I wasn’t conscious of anything beyond my own mind,” Jon replies carefully biting his lip, he can recall snatched snippets of conversation, voices that are familiar, words that he should know.

“Beyond your own mind?” Martin asks gently, everything about him is gentle as if he speaks too loudly Jon will fade away before his gaze.

“I… I was watching statements and being watched in turn,” Jon replies hesitantly rubbing his fingers carefully over Tim’s.

“The Eye,” Tim says his voice thick with emotion, not bitter or hateful, perhaps just resigned. Jon nods once.

“Do you or uh did you hear what I was talking about earlier today?” Martin asks fiddling with the hospital sheet if the noise was any indication. Jon does remember, it is one of the clearest things in his head at the moment, that and Oliver Banks’ visit.

“Yes, I-uh most if not all of it,” Jon replies squeezing Martin’s hand before he asks, “Is there anything else I should Know?”

The compulsion crackles on his tongue before he can really think about it, the power that hums behind it like ichor in his veins as he curses and says, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine Jon,” Martin replies squeezing his hand gently before he continues, “Basira’s been speaking to Elias, she says he’s been giving her leads though obviously Basira suspects an ulterior motive, she hasn’t let on about the tapes. We’ve been managing the best we can without you.”

Jon nods and then Tim squeezes Jon’s hand and says, “I would have died if you hadn’t… if you hadn’t covered me Jon. I-it was a blur, then pain so much pain. Your body was fine, there weren’t any injuries, I remember my ears ringing, I uh still can’t hear properly in one ear might even need hearing aids, but uh I was fine, just some burns and you were fine. Lying on top of me, but you weren’t breathing, there wasn’t a pulse. I-I started compressions but… then the paramedics arrived and I knew you were alive, somehow, they knew too, I think Elias told them. Then they took me to the hospital to treat my burns.”

“I-Tim I’m sorry. Where?” Jon says, the words fall from his tongue heavy as lead and tasting just as poisonous.

“Everywhere you didn’t cover me, some of my arms, bits of my legs, heh even some of my face, guess I can’t be the pretty one now huh?” Tim says and his voice isn’t bitter, it could be though Jon knows, anger would be so easy, it just sounds sad, Tim continues, “If I had just listened to you! We could have- you would have been okay.”

There’s the anger, directed at himself this time. Jon makes a soft sound, can hear Martin’s faint breathing as he processes Tim’s words, “I-It’s okay Tim, I’m just happy you’re okay.”

“That’s not all,” Tim says quietly running his fingers gently over the spark scars across Jon’s hands, with a rough inhale and Martin’s hand stretching across the bed to join Tim’s he continues, “I’ve changed. I uh guess was marked? Melanie told me what you told her. The Desolation, I think it marked me in the explosion, not like that cult, like Perry,” Tim inhales for a moment before he continues, “I can feel the call to burn things? Well, not burn, destroy, I saw this book and I knew it was important to Lily from Research and yet I wanted to destroy it, wanted to watch it go up in flame. I can do this now too,” Tim finishes and he snaps his fingers a moment later there is the soft hiss of a flame consuming oxygen.

“We’ve all changed,” Jon says somberly, tugging his hands out of Martin and Tim’s to carefully clasp together before he continues, “I… it’s possible you’ve not just been marked you could be becoming an avatar, eventually you’ll have to make a choice.”

“Did you make a choice, Jon?” Martin asks carefully reaching out to take one of Jon’s hands into his own.

Jon’s shoulders slump as he exhales for a long moment before he straightens and says, “Yes.”

“So, you’re an avatar of the Eye now?” Tim asks, he doesn’t sound hurt just curious and Jon can’t say how much he appreciates it. He already Knows he’s a monster, he doesn’t want to hear it from them, let him bask in denial for at least a little while.

“Essentially yes, I am The Archivist,” Jon replies the words ring with a sense of right, and Jon can feel the Eye’s approval radiating from that spot at the centre of his spine outwards.

Tim shifts in the cheap plastic chair and asks, “What do I do? Just not burn things, it’s a bit too late for that what with the Flesh attack.”

“I… I suppose so? It’s more about destruction, burning is just part of that, the Desolation isn’t only fire, it’s as the name implies, complete destruction of that which we cherish. It’s uh tearing relationships apart, it’s stopping someone’s moment of triumph, it’s ruining what we hold dear. It’s almost a fear of loss, of losing what we have. As long as you don’t feed your god, to paraphrase, I-I don’t think you’ll become an avatar.”

“And you Jon, do you have to feed your god?” Martin asks the words are serious and heavy, sitting between the three of them.

“Yes.”

“What exactly do you feed it?” Tim questions reaching out he snatches Jon’s hand and this time Jon trails his fingers slowly over the burn scars on his hand, the ones that trail up his arms, he’s warm now too, warmer than he was before, almost feverish.

“What else? Knowledge, Statements. I-I suspect, well no I have evidence now that not reading statements is detrimental to my health. I think, I Know that I need to read them,” Jon replies and a part of him is disgusted in himself, in what he has become. And yet what was the other alternative? Death.

An unhappy silence settles between the three of them and Jon flinches back slightly pressing into the uncomfortable pillow behind him. Martin makes a distressed noise and reaches out tugs Jon forward, says in a tender whisper, “You’re alive Jon, that’s all that matters. We know, we both know that you’re still human.”

“I don’t feel human,” Jon says quietly, oh so quietly.

Martin’s hand is warm and gentle on Jon’s cheek, one thumb pressing small circles into his skin as he says, “You are, you might be bound to some eldritch horror god, but you still have choices, you can choose to be human, to act human. In the end, aren’t we all just actors, the world’s a stage and all that?”

“Look at you, getting poetic,” Tim teases lightening the atmosphere slightly before he continues, “You’re as human as the rest of us Jon, so you have to go on a bit of a diet. You can be better; you can make new choices, human choices.”

Tim’s hand is warm against Jon’s cheek as it brushes away the tears. Jon nods biting his lip and leaning into the warmth of Martin’s hand.

There is a knock on the door and then Georgie’s voice asking, “You lovebirds decent?”

He can’t help the blush that spreads across his cheeks as Martin’s embarrassed, “Georgie!” rings through the room followed by the sound of her rich laughter. Jon has missed that laughter. It’s followed by the sound of the door clicking open and then Jon hears a bark.

He disentangles his hand from Martin’s and drops it to the side of the hospital bed, a few seconds later the Lieutenant’s fur is beneath his hands and he carefully pets her. He knows he must look like a mess, tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, horrible bed head, Jon doesn’t care. Not when his family is here.

Jon Knows things.

He can’t say when or where he begins to notice that he Knows things, it’s a slow gradual sort of awareness that builds and builds. He Knows supplemental research about statements before he has even read them, he Knows that Basira doesn’t trust him, thinks he came back a monster (wasn’t he already one?) but that she prefers him to Elias; he supposes he should get used to calling him, Jonah.

That’s not all though, Jon Knows the path to the shop, or how many cars are on the street, he finds he hardly needs his stick when his feet guide him with a Knowledge not his own through busy streets. He wonders if he could perhaps pass as someone with sight now.

He can hear the Eye, Beholding, Ceaseless Watcher, whatever names one might attach to that which sees and knows all.

As much as one can hear an eldritch fear entity in any case. Jon isn’t sure how to describe it, the Eye doesn’t have a voice not in the way humans have a voice to speak, it is voiceless, it is instead, flashes of insight in just the right place accompanied by almost a pointing finger, a nudge, it is flashes of images, the red of an apple fresh and crisp, the taste creeping on his tongue along with the knowledge that it is a rare brand picked only in America.

It is a promise. So many promises, sweet and succulent, honey and savoury, of power, more than Jonah Magnus, than most avatars could dream of (why? His mind demands why and the Eye whispers soon), it promises all the Knowledge in the world if he would only submit himself fully, utterly to the Eye, to be Beheld, to be Known.

Hasn’t he already?

No not in waking.

The Eye has one promise it dangles in front of Jon like a carrot on the stick, though it’s worth more than gold, so rather the karat on the stick. It whispers into his mind at all hours, when he is sitting at his desk reading a statement when he is eating lunch at the pub near the Institute when he is flopped on Georgie’s couch with the Admiral on his back.

See?

A question but not really a question. An offering. Flashes of eyes, green, blue, brown, grey, too many pupils, too few, sclera that is black or running red with blood and they are all watching Jon as he sleeps asking See? Asking, would you like your sight back?

Who took it?

Jon cannot help but ask. His memories of that night are vague, blurry, little flashes of sight, images frozen as if paused on a screen. Jon Knows that whatever took his sight it wasn’t human (the doctors always were surprised at how cleanly the nerves were severed; how complete his lack of sight is). Jon can see a few candidates, the Desolation, but Jon didn’t love his sight, didn’t have the maturity to even appreciate it. The Web could be involved in some way but Jon can’t see a clear motive (which doesn’t mean there isn’t one), the Dark, what is more terrifying than living in darkness having known sight after all? The Eye.

The Eye does not answer the question, Jon feels instead its strange attempt at comfort, the image of a bed, the crackle of a fire, the scent of lavender, the Knowledge that sea otters hold hands when they sleep to keep from drifting apart and seahorses mate for life, and when they travel, they hold each others’ tails.

See?

The Eye asks again.

It is tempting to say yes, it is incredibly tempting. To be able to see what Martin and Tim look like, what Georgie looks like, the paintings he never saw as a child, the movies he loves in colour, the actors, how Sasha looked.

No more pitying sounds, or offers to help him cross the street when he’s perfectly fine, no more questions about what happened.

But. In exchange, Jon would be the Archivist, fully and completely, any remaining shreds of humanity would fall at his feet like tattered rags, like a shed skin, revealing the shining newness beneath. Jon Knows this, the Eye makes sure he Knows this. The Eye is nothing if not sincere in this offer.

Jon Knows, if he accepted, he would become something from a statement, stalking innocent people for their statements, he would want, he would try to enact the Watcher’s Crown. It’s a choice as all things are.

He thinks about it, it lingers on his mind, how could it not? Every hour of the day he wonders what it would be like if he could see Martin sighing or Tim flicking his fingers close to a statement, fire filling the air, just to make Jon frown and glower, see Basira fiddling with her hijab and compliment her on the colour.

For so long it’s never even been a possibility and now that is it? Well, could you blame Jon for considering it?

Jon is curled up between Martin and Tim, Martin pressed against his spine, one warm hand resting gently over Jon’s stomach, Tim is in front of him, his arm laced with Martin’s. He listens to the soft sound of their breathing and thinks he’s already made his choice. He made it that first night he curled up with both of them and knew he was home. Sight would be nice, but it isn’t everything, isn’t worth this.

Tim was the one who found the room, it’s large, almost circular and there apparently was already a table in the centre, old wood, not sure how old. Jon could tell Tim but considering it’s at least a few centuries, predating even the Panopticon he’s chosen not to mention it.

There were no chairs though and he enlisted Martin to help bring those down into the tunnels, they’re the cheap folding sort that are always uncomfortable. Tim tells Jon all this as he follows him into the tunnels, the heavy weight of the eye pressed to the back of his spine and inside his skull fades, distant, like stretched rope about to fray and maybe even snap.

“Were you exploring alone?” Jon can’t help but question carefully one arm looped through Tim’s as Martin walks behind them muttering about how he hates the tunnels. Jon can sympathize just a little bit.

“For the most part, I know, I know what you’re going to say Jon, it’s dangerous, you don’t know what could be done here blah blah. Honestly, I took Basira down here with me the first few times, but I still have all those maps from after the infestation and they’re surprisingly accurate. It… it gave me something to do. And besides, it’s not like I’m defenceless anymore,” Tim says and Jon rolls his eyes as he hears the soft hiss of a flame sparking.

“Put that away Tim, you don’t know what could be down here! Gertrude could have left flammable materials in the tunnels,” Martin protests as they step into the room, it’s currently empty except for them which Jon Knows.

“I doubt Gertrude even got this far,” Tim replies casually even as he guides Jon to an uncomfortable plastic chair. He sits down carefully and pulls out the statements Basira had copied out, his fingers running gently over the raised braille.

“She apparently explored the tunnels quite thoroughly if she was able to find the Panopticon,” Jon replies as another plastic chair is pulled out, scraping across the floor, and Martin sighs near Jon as he continues, “Any luck finding it yet?”

“No, nothing, but I think I’m getting closer, only wish I had that book Leitner had,” Tim says with a sigh as he pulls a chair out and flops into it.

“Probably for the best,” Martin says somewhat cheerily and then continues, “Are Georgie and Melanie coming as well?”

“Yep it’s a full team meeting,” Tim says with a smile to his voice before he continues musingly, “What would our team name be? Team Stop the Apocalypse?”

“Very creative Tim,” Jon drawls as the sound of footsteps make themselves known he calls out, “Hello Basira, everything go alright with Elias?”

“How did you? You know what never mind, he was as cryptic as always. Tried to give me a lead about the Dark and their ritual which I guess confirms he doesn’t Know that we know,” Basira replies as a chair scrapes across the floor she continues, “What were you all talking about?”

“Our team name,” Tim replies cheerily and Jon rolls his eyes continuing to drag his fingers over the raised braille.

“What about Team Eye for an Eye, because we’re sort of getting revenge,” Martin suggests shifting in his seat probably to pull out the thermos of tea he brought.

“Are you still in favour of the plan to stab Elias, Martin?” Jon asks fondly already knowing the answer.

“Of course,” Martin replies.

“I don’t know if it’s quite the right fit Martin, a bit heavy-handed,” Tim replies in a considering manner as if a board of directors talking to the poor task manager. Basira snorts even as Martin huffs in disappointment. Tim laughs, soft and short before asking, “What about you Basira any suggestions?”

She hums for a moment drawing the suspense out before she suggests, “Team Eye?”

“That’s boring Basira,” Martin whines plaintively and Jon can’t help but muffle a chuckle into the cuff of his shirt.

A pair of footsteps make themselves known and Jon calls out, “Hello Georgie, Melanie.”

“Hello Jon and the pair of eyes in the back of your head,” Melanie says cheerfully ruffling a hand through his hair before pulling out a seat for her and Georgie.

“Is it possible Jon does have eyes in the back of his head?” Georgie asks bemusedly as she presses a kiss to the crown of Jon’s head before joining Melanie.

Jon hums curiously, if he has any extra eyes, he certainly can’t use them, Tim chuckles and replies, “If he does, we haven’t found them. We were discussing team names before you lovely ladies walked in, any ideas?”

“Team Nobody?” Melanie suggests and then extrapolates, “Like in the Odyssey ‘cause he poked out the cyclops’ eye, he said his name was nobody. We could have the calling card thing too, who destroyed the ritual? It was nobody.”

“That’s actually pretty decent Melanie,” Tim says impressed, Jon can feel Basira watching him, the Eye looking through her, or attempting to.

“My turn?” Georgie asks in that particular tone of hers that always signifies teasing she continues, “What about Team Blind Justice?”

“I resent that name,” Jon says dryly glaring in the direction he Knows Georgie is sitting.

She just laughs and sticks her tongue out ignoring Jon’s glare as Tim asks, “Oh are puns on the table now? I can’t wait to see what will come next.”

“I hate all of you and am leaving now,” Jon says with a roll of his eyes, pretending to gather up his papers in a huff.

“Do we have to have a team name?” Martin questions even as he pats Jon on the hand in sympathy.

“Perhaps we should be discussing what we came here to discuss, we don’t want Lukas to be suspicious,” Basira states shoving the light atmosphere firmly into an early grave. Jon sighs softly and sets the statements down on the table.

“Probably for the best, though I have no doubt he is already quite suspicious of us,” Jon replies shifting slightly in his seat before he continues, “Let’s establish what we already know and we can move on from there. Basira?”

Basira huffs her chair shifting before she says, “Currently, we know that Elias Bouchard is actually Jonah Magnus, he attempted a ritual in the 1800’s, when many of the Fears attempted their own rituals, which gave him the ability to-“

“Body hop?” Tim interrupts with an annoyed huff of laughter.

“-Yes, to put it bluntly. Gertrude Robinson, the previous Archivist, discovered that the rituals don’t need to be stopped, Jon you had a theory on that?” Basira trails off as the attention of the room swings to him.

“Yes, from what Gertrude’s notes say it seems that trying to bring only one entity into the world is impossible, they’re connected, they overlap. I suppose if you were to bring a few entities that overlap, like the Desolation and the Slaughter, a ritual might work. But any ritual focusing on one entity will fail,” Jon replies carefully tapping his fingers against the wood of the table, there is a thought percolating at the back of his mind.

“Which leads us to the important part, Jonah Magnus wants to enact the Eye’s ritual and no doubt he knows what we’ve already discussed,” Basira says, there is the sound of shifting as she continues, “Which leaves us with the question of how he plans to enact the ritual, and how to stop him.”

“Jon,” Melanie begins in the sweeping silence Basira’s words have left, she continues, “How many entities have you been marked by?”

“I-I don’t know?” Jon replies trying to push at the Eye, for his efforts he receives the beginning of a headache.

“Well, the Corruption, the Desolation, the Vast, the Stranger, the Hunt, the End I guess for certain?” Tim replies reaching out to carefully loop his hand through Jon’s, his fingers trailing over the spark scars on his skin.

“It’s hard to tell,” Jon continues rubbing a hand over his face, “I- when I was younger, I collected quite a few Leitners and some of them marked me.”

“Collected them?” Martin questions in that high squeaky voice that he always has when he’s concerned. Has he not told them about this?

“I couldn’t read them so…” Jon trails off unwilling to stick his foot in his mouth any further. He can still feel the concern of practically everyone at the table.

“We’re getting distracted, Melanie why were you asking about Jon being marked?” Georgie questions carefully, the very air, though distant from the Eye, feels staticky, charged, like whatever they might say could change everything.

“I-is it possible Jonah wanted Jon to be marked?” Melanie questions carefully in the sudden silence that falls heavy and still over them.

“That would be impossible wouldn’t it?” Tim questions carefully, his voice has gone hollow and empty. Jon feels frozen stuck to his seat and unable to move, every limb, the beating of his heart, once more still, as if he never woke from that coma.

“Would it though?” Martin questions and his voice is tired and hard as he continues, “He didn’t take our complaints about Prentiss seriously, he allowed the not-them into the Institute, the Spiral stabbed Jon, he knew we didn’t have to stop the Unknowing but he still sent us there, he let Jon get kidnapped by the Hunt, by the Stranger. He probably even wanted Jon to interact with Mike Crew and Jude Perry. Even that attack by the Flesh probably was meant to mark Jon.”

“Why?” Basira questions her voice hard, Jon can feel them looking at him, studying the scars that mark his body, that mark him.

“Basira,” Tim says carefully interrupting before he continues, “Didn’t Elias want you to check out a ritual related to the Dark?”

“He did, and isn’t it convenient that Peter Lukas, who’s affiliated with the Lonely took over the Institute,” Basira replies and the words drop like stones, she sighs and continues, “That still leaves the question of why.”

Jon considers everything carefully for a long moment, “If- what if Jonah wants to bring all the entities into the world at once through… through me. If-if I’m marked by each entity then perhaps… perhaps it would be possible.”

There’s a long silence that follows those words. It seems the only probable answer, why else would Jonah allow Jon to get marked? Why wouldn’t he tell Jon that the rituals don’t need to be stopped? And, if this is his plan, then too much of it makes sense to think otherwise.

“So, what do we do about it?” Melanie asks with a huff, Jon Knows she’s leaning back in her plastic chair, so far, it’s almost about to tip with her arms crossed over her chest.

“We don’t necessarily know that’s what Jonah wants,” Martin protests gently.

“I-I have a contact I could speak to? Confirm everything or at least some of it,” Jon suggests thinking of Mike Crew’s phone number still in his phone and the feeling of vertigo which catches him at random when he’s on the last step or even just lying down.

“But if it is true, we need a plan,” Tim says quietly, his voice is searing with the need to do something.

“If we… If I die, Jonah would have to start over again it would give you all time to figure out something,” Jon says quietly steepling his hands carefully together and tilting his head down to face the table.

“Jon,” Martin says his name soft and scandalised before he continues, “We’re not- we’re not going to- to kill you! We’ll find a better plan, an alternative.”

“It would probably be quite difficult to kill me anyway,” Jon mutters with a tilt of his head.

“So, killing Jon’s definitely not an option but what about killing Jonah? I doubt he’s spread the word far and wide on how to actually conduct the ritual,” Melanie says carefully, a faint hint of the Slaughter still there.

“It won’t be easy,” Jon says a tiny bit relieved (?) that they’ve dropped the previous subject before he continues, “Killing an Avatar isn’t easy, we’d have to find the Panopticon where his original body is and deal with Elias at the same time. It’s not as simple as stabbing him either, avatars are hard to kill.”

“Could we just put him out of action somehow? Stick him where he won’t be able to do any harm in the meantime?” Tim questions his chair squeaking as he leans back in it, there’s the faint smell of smoke filling the room.

“Possibly,” Jon says rubbing a hand over his arms before he continues, “I-we’ll need to investigate. I’ll speak to my lead.”

“In the meantime, Jon,” Basira says and her tone turns commanding, “Try not to get marked any more.”

“I’ll try,” Jon promises weakly.

Jon picks a café; Melanie tells him it’s a nice one but definitely trying for the hipster vibe (whatever that means) with unique names for each coffee all inspired by songs. Jon gets something black and settles at a table in the back with Melanie, who gets a confection Jon can’t even pronounce. On the plus side, the Lieutenant gets whipped cream so they’re off to a good start.

He Knows when Mike arrives, the very air is suddenly heavy with the taste of ozone and he can feel a swooping sensation in his stomach, like when a hill suddenly drops away and all that’s left is the fall. Melanie stills next to him, one nail, (she said they were bright red) tapping against the table as she says, “He’s here.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees as the scent of ozone grows stronger and a chair is pulled out at their small table accompanied by the sound of a coffee cup settling on the table.

“Archivist, heard you were dead?” Mike asks as he takes a sip of his coffee. The Lieutenant, at Jon’s side, shifts beneath his hand and makes a low growling sound deep in her chest. Jon brushes his fingers carefully through her fur.

“I was, now I’m not,” Jon agrees mildly with a shrug, the air stretching and tensing, ozone and static pressing against each other.

“You have questions,” Mike says carefully, almost nervously, can he sense how Jon has changed? How he has made a choice?

“Can you tell how many entities I’ve been marked by?” Jon asks carefully, reaching out to take a sip of his coffee, feeling the warmth attempting to pull through his chest. It’s halted by the cold dread balled up in his throat.

Mike makes a considering sound studying Jon for a long moment before he continues, “Hard to tell exactly, twelve maybe?”

Melanie sucks in a harsh breath and Jon exhales feeling the dread expand filling up his chest as static crackles on his tongue, “Did Elias ask you to mark me when we first met?”

“Simon mentioned it would be beneficial to the Vast if I did,” Mike replies casually, shifting, shrugging, and picking up his coffee again before he continues, “With how many you’ve got someone probably wants you to be marked.”

“Do you know what Elias is planning?” Jon asks, the static bubbles and fizzes, like a carbonated drink on his tongue and Jon, can feel the weight of the Eye surrounding him, pressing in around him.

“No, but from what Jude and a few others have said, he’s been making a lot of deals, promises about something,” Mike replies the words tugged from his lips sounding almost painful. Jon nods as Mike takes a sip of his coffee and feels Melanie’s hand around his wrist, her nails almost digging into his skin.

“Last question, how would you deal with an entity of the Eye?” Jon asks carefully, feeling as if his hair is standing on end as the scent of ozone grows thick. The air goes very still for a long moment.

“Hard to say, hard to kill one of us,” Mike says, “But well you bury an avatar of the Vast and it isn’t pretty. I suppose if you buried an Eye, they wouldn’t be able to see, that or maybe the Darkness, maybe the Stranger or the Spiral. No offence but I don’t want a part in whatever you’re planning Archivist.”

“Thanks, this was all I needed” Jon says quietly as his mind races trying to process everything, Helen might be willing to help them but the others? Not so much.

“No problem, be careful Archivist, there are rumours that the Hunt is in town,” Mike says and then rises to his feet his chair scraping behind him. The Lieutenant shifts under Jon’s hands but doesn’t move as the bell over the door rings behind Mike.

“Well that was helpful,” Melanie says under her breath, tapping her nails against the table in a fast rhythm.

“I think it was,” Jon says with a shrug draining the last of his coffee he continues, “It appears we might need to investigate Elias’ lead into the Dark after all.”

“I’m sure Basira will be happy with that,” Melanie says sarcastically, reaching out she pats Jon’s hand once and then continues, “Come on, let’s take the Lieutenant for a walk and then you can go and eat your statements.”

“Alright,” Jon says rising to his feet and carefully looping his arm through Melanie’s. As they walk out into the bright sunlight, Jon can’t help but consider it, they don’t have to kill Jonah. If they could trap him within an entity’s domain, one that would effectively strip him of his powers, then everyone at the Institue would be safe. Jon can’t help but think of that old cliché of unburying something a thousand years later and releasing unspeakable evil though.

In the aftermath of Breekon’s visit, Jon sits in front of the Coffin, he can hear it, or rather perhaps the absence of hearing, as if all sound has become muffled, dampened through a layer of thick material. The statement of the entity known as Breekon sits heavy in his chest, filling like a particularly good meal, and yet weighted with the knowledge that Daisy is in that coffin. She is buried there, has been for months.

Jon still feels ambivalent about Daisy at best, she tried to kill him and Jon isn’t usually in the habit of making friends with those who seek to kill him. And yet, Jon can’t help but hear Basira’s voice, hopeful and hurt in equal measure, the way she says her name. Jon dragged both Daisy and Basira into this mess and if he can save even one person…

“Jon?” Martin questions softly, the door creaks open and with it the sound of a generator humming, faintly footsteps, and the huff of Martin’s breathing and the weight of his shoes as he steps inside, “Have you been staring at the Coffin again?”

“I-yes, I just, I know I could get her out of there,” Jon says faintly, his very words feel bound up inside his chest and wrapped in yarn.

“Jon, you can’t know that, no one’s ever come out of the coffin before, and we can’t afford for you to be marked,” Martin says walking closer; one palm settles warm and heavy on Jon’s shoulder grounding him into the moment.

“Martin, I _know_ I could do it, I-it’s like in those statements, I just… I need an anchor. And, it could be worth the risk, what if we can, get it on our side somehow? Convince it to help with Elias? I’m willing to take that risk.”

“I don’t want to lose you Jon,” Martin says his other hand threaded with Jon’s and for a moment Jon can just focus on the sound of Martin breathing and then, “What would an anchor even be?”

“I- from what I understand it can be people, just something that you love,” Jon says carefully and feels Martin tense for a moment as Jon continues, “I would come back to you, both of you. I promise Martin. I have to do this.”

“O-okay Jon,” Martin says softly, and then, “But not tonight, tonight we’re going to all get drinks and shit talk Elias.”

“Alright.”

The Buried is well, tight, it presses in all around Jon, from every side, with the damp smell of wet earth and he knows that even if he had sight, he wouldn’t be able to see anything. The walls press against his sides, trying to shift him, shape him, change him, like that one Roald Dahl book he read as a kid. It presses down on him making every movement difficult, it sucks and pulls at his feet like mud, cloaks his hands, fills his lungs, until all he is, all he knows, is the Buried.

Jon crawls forward occasionally calling out Daisy’s name when he can find the air in his lungs for it. The sound doesn’t travel far, but Jon can feel a tugging somewhere in his chest drawing him forwards.

Sometimes, he hears voices, distant, so distant they sound more like they’re inside his head. Crying out, whimpering, pleading, begging, all to get _out._ But it’s the silence that is the worse, just the press of dirt, heaving shifting, crumbling around him, pressing, pressing, down, around.

The Eye is distant, similar to the tunnels and yet somehow worse, as if the only presence of the Eye is that which Jon carries within himself. All else is diminished, he cannot Know what the others are doing, how Georgie and Melanie’s discussion with Helen turned out, what Martin and Tim are doing, can only pray they are safe.

He wonders how long it’s been.

Time, for lack of a better way to put it, doesn’t pass in the Buried, it is slow, sluggish, every minute, every hour, trickling from one to the next without warning, without pause, like preserved amber. There is no hunger or thirst, or rather it is there, the taste of dirt in his mouth, but it is not a demanding thing, just persistent.

He wonders how many of those within the Coffin are still alive. How many people are down here?

He calls Daisy’s name again, thinks with what fondness he can drag up of her listening to The Archers, or talking with Basira. Perhaps it would have been wiser to send Basira into the Coffin, she is also connected to the Eye.

But she would not Know, and Jon does.

The dirt presses in again and Jon has to pause, has to breathe and just stay still, waiting it out, praying it will be over, that the fear pounding inside his head will abate. You’d think after everything Jon would stop being so afraid but still that fear is persistent, ever-present, as blood flows through his veins so too does fear.

Jon is sick of feeling afraid, it feels as if for the past few years, that’s all he’s been feeling; afraid. He doesn’t want to be afraid anymore.

He calls out again and this time, faint so very faint as to be a voice inside his head, his name. It springs hope like a river in his chest and Jon pushes forward breathing through the dust and the taste of mud on his tongue.

Jon calls Daisy’s name, his voice is choked, scratched raw by the dust but still he calls out, still he crawls forward, rocks and harsh chunks of dirt scrap his hands and knees.

Then, “Jon!”

Daisy’s voice so close, there, someone else. Jon struggles forward into a small space, hardly a space really, a gap, and there, harsh breathing and his name again, “Jon.”

Jon shuffles forward the last few feet and feels Daisy’s arms wrapping around his shoulders, his arms wrap around her automatically and Jon inhales the faint scent of blood, something earthy, and Daisy’s tears pressed into his shirt.

For a long time, they stay like that, pressed so tightly together with the world pressing down on them that there is no space. Jon isn’t sure where he ends and Daisy begins just knows the rhythm of her breathing as intimately as his own.

Eventually, in that strange slip between time Daisy pulls back, her fingers are slightly too warm on his cheeks and caked in dust as she asks, “What are you doing here Jon?”

“I-I came for you,” Jon says through the thick mud lining his throat, burrowing his fingers deeper into Daisy’s shirt as the dirt presses in, in, in.

“Why?” Daisy asks quietly, it is a weighted word so filled with what has happened and yet still they cling to each other.

“Because Basira needs you,” Jon says and it is the truth as much as he is able to tell it. Jon loops one hand with Daisy’s and says, “Follow me, don’t let go.”

“Are you sure?” Daisy asks but she doesn’t let go, her hand tightens around Jon’s as he begins to lead them forward. The walls press against them, trying to drown them, to crush their bones to the marrow, like roadkill after a week, to flatten them, fill them, twist them.

Jon inhales sharply but pushes forward, thinks of Martin making tea, muttering scraps of poetry under his breath. Jon wonders if that’s what he’s doing right now, making tea and glancing at the door every few seconds, biting his lip in worry. Maybe Tim is in there with him, snapping his fingers again and again for something to do, feeling useless, feeling helpless, and itching to do something.

He wonders if they’re listening to his old statements just to hear his voice. Suddenly, all Jon wants is to be there with them.

“Yes,” Jon says through the dirt in his mouth and crawls forward Daisy’s hand wrapped around his own.

Jon isn’t sure for how long they move through the Buried, they have to pause and just clutch each other when the dirt presses in, taking solace in the beat of their hearts, as the world presses, and presses, and buries.

He doesn’t stop thinking about Tim and Martin, encourages Daisy to think of Basira, and they don’t lose their way.

Sometimes, when they have the breath for it, they’ll talk, the words damp and muffled, softened as if they have no weight but for that which it draws from their lungs. Daisy shifts and says quietly, “I can feel it the- the connection to the Hunt. It’s so… distant. I don’t want it anymore; I don’t want to be that person anymore. But I can’t change what I’ve done, who I am… was. I know that when I leave here, I’ll just be that person again.”

“Not necessarily you are what you choose,” Jon will say quietly and it’s not comforting just the truth.

And Jon will tell her quietly about Jonah Magnus, the rituals, the marks and he will ask, “When we- when we get out, Daisy I need you to. Will you find something for me?”

Daisy freezes beside him, the dirt takes advantages, fills the space between them, fills them until Daisy gasps out, “What?”

“I need you to find the not-them for me,” Jon whispers, the words taste like dirt and the wrong of the Stranger. But it is their only option, barely all that’s left after the Unknowing.

“To kill it?” Daisy questions as they move forward, their knees feel like bloody pulps and their hair is matted with dirt, they move slowly and Jon thinks of Martin’s tea.

“No, but it’s still a hunt, a different kind of hunt,” Jon says and can’t think too deeply about what he’s asking of her. He knows all the same, without the hunt she would die just as Jon withers without statements. Perhaps this is a mercy of a sort. If he keeps saying it maybe he’ll convince himself.

“Okay, if you get me out, I’ll do it,” Daisy says dirt trickling from her mouth.

They crawl forward and Jon can hear it now, can hear Tim’s voice saying, “They’ll be back, they have to come back.”

“And what if they don’t,” Basira replies simply and Daisy shivers, shudders, Jon glances back at her, eyes wide and he sees like recognising like.

There is a pair of stairs, Jon Knows this, the dirt does not press as tightly, it sucks at their feet, asking them, begging them to come back. It whispers promises, the Buried is safe, there is no harm here, it whispers.

“Go ahead, I’ll be out in a moment,” Jon whispers tasting dirt on his tongue. Daisy makes a protesting sound but then Basira speaks again and she moves forward past Jon. He waits until he is alone before he continues, “I’d like to make an offer.”

He Knows when he has the attention of the Buried on him, he tilts his head coughing up dirt and continues, “A prison, trapped, hardly any windows, bars, Buried in a system that doesn’t want to let them out.”

_And?_

The Buried seems to ask, Jon hasn’t met an avatar of the Buried he suspects they rarely leave their domain if ever. He smiles, “One prisoner in particular, Elias Bouchard, of the Eye.”

The walls press in around him, crushing his ribs, pressing his spine down, down, brittle bones threatening to break. Jon waits, his eyes closed and the taste of dirt on his tongue, in him, with him.

_Yes_.

Jon nods and walks forward the dirt trails from his hands and sucks at his feet but it lets him take the first step and the next, and the next, until Jon can suck in a breath of air that doesn’t taste like dirt.

“Jon!” Tim says and he doesn’t wrap his arms around Jon, but his hands touch his cheeks, warm, too warm, brushing away the dirt.

“It’s been three days Jon,” Martin says softly, one of his hands is curled loosely around his arm.

“I’m back, I’m here, I’m back,” Jon says until he can believe it, leans forward until his face is pressed into Tim’s shirt and he can inhale the scent of smoke and salt, Martin behind him camomile and mint. Martin’s hand tightens around Jon’s arm before he pulls away. Jon makes a broken sound deep in his chest until Martin returns.

Tim presses a bottle of water to Jon’s lips and he drinks deeply, washes away the taste of dirt and asks, “Daisy?”

“Basira’s got her,” Martin explains gently, running his fingers through Jon’s hair brushing out clumps of dirt.

“I-I need to make a phone call,” Jon says shakily, he Knows the number for Breekon and can only hope it’ll answer, one more delivery.

“It agreed?” Tim asks, his hands tightening in Jon’s shirt before he carefully pulls back still keeping contact. Jon grounds himself in it, knows that he’s out of the Buried, he’s safe.

“Not now Jon,” Martin says tenderly pressing a kiss to Jon’s cheek, “Later, let’s go home.”

“Okay.”

Ny-Ålesund is cold, objectively Jon knew this but that does not make it any less cold than it is. Jon spends most of the trip tucked against Tim’s side, who is completely unaware of the cold Basira complains, apparently, he is wearing shorts.

The trip itself is mostly quiet but for the statement Jon takes (he tries not to think about it, about the _need_ ) and soft discussions between Tim and Basira about Jon and Daisy. He spends a lot of the trip on deck the icy wind brushing against his face and the sound of the waves choppy against the hull. Better than in a boxed room with stale air.

Basira and Tim are in the cabin again and Jon is on the deck when he feels him approach. Familiar, Known and yet not, Jon tilts his head, “Oliver Banks.”

“I see you made your choice Jon,” Oliver says leaning against the railing, there is a faint scent to the air around Oliver, something not rot, but like the cool stone of a graveyard, or the cold sterility of a morgue.

“Yes,” Jon says quietly drawing his gloved fingers over the ice-cold rail.

“I died on a ship like this,” Oliver says musingly and then pauses, Jon can feel the weight of his attention as he continues, “We both know I’m not here by chance Archivist. I suppose you want to know how to kill an avatar, Mike mentioned it. The truth is I don’t know.”

Jon hums, flinching slightly as a freeze of ice-cold spray cuts into his cheeks before he continues, “But trapping an avatar in the opposing domain? It might kill him?”

“You mean Elias?” Oliver says the name carefully, almost ambivalent before he continues, “Word’s gotten around about the Coffin appearing in a prison of all places. Some would describe that as rather monstrous Jon.”

“Mike describe it like that?” Jon asks carefully, shifting and wishing he had the Lieutenant at his side or even Tim.

“Not really, he seemed impressed actually,” Oliver responds and there’s something almost fond to his tone before he continues, “It won’t hold Elias forever. The Lukas family have too much invested in him for that.”

Jon frowns hands tightening around the rail, he had rather been hoping, still he continues, “If some of the entities worked together would it?”

“Perhaps,” Oliver says dryly before continuing, “The End might even be willing to help. Do you know what would happen Jon if Elias’ ritual worked?” he shakes his head, “Well of course terror in abundance, ruined world, the usual apocalyptic scene. But there would be no new humans, no need to eat, to drink, just the fear. But you can’t stop Death, nothing can, even the entities themselves will one day die, everything does. So, that beautiful, fearful, ruined world, would eventually cease to be and even Elias would not be safe from the End.”

“I guess you’d prefer that doesn’t happen,” Jon says dryly muffling a shiver that could have been the cold just as much as the fear.

“No,” Oliver agrees placidly, “It would be rather boring. The End will help, it has waited long enough to claim Jonah Magnus.”

Then there is the sound of footsteps retreating and Jon Knows he is alone. He leans forward resting his head in the crook of his arms with a long exhale, the breath hot on his lips. A door opens somewhere behind him, and Tim presses against his side a line of warmth, “We’re going to dock soon, want to come inside?”

Jon follows Tim into their cabin where Basira is flipping through a book, she tilts her head, “So, what’s the plan? Find the remnants of the Dark and try to bargain with them?”

“Something like that,” Jon agrees quietly, leaning his head against Tim’s shoulder as he relays the conversation with Oliver to them.

Ny-Ålesund is cold, the kind of draining, dripping cold of complete and utter night, when all the warmth of the sun, of light, has trickled to nothing. Their lead is a warehouse and Jon tucks his coat tighter around his body as they step inside.

Their footsteps echo, loud, the warehouse is empty. Tim huffs snapping his fingers for a weak flame as he says, “I can’t see anything.”

“That’s rather the point,” Basira responds quietly, she has a torch which she flicked on a few minutes ago, Jon Knows it barely pierces the thick darkness that surrounds them. The darkness is heavy, almost like the Buried but not, Jon feels no fear in this darkness for he has known it most of his life. He can _sense_ something; he suspects the Dark Sun from the statement.

There is the faint sound of footsteps, they are not Tim’s or Basira’s and Jon calls out, “Who’s there?”

Static crackles on his tongue filling the very air as a voice calls back, “Manuela Dominguez.”

“Come out,” Basira demands and Jon tenses as he hears the safety of a gun unclicked and heat fills the air around them.

“Why are you here? To gloat? You’ve already won, leave us,” Manuela replies, her voice is low, raspy, but nice enough.

Jon holds up a hand, steps forward and says, “No, we come with information and a bargain.”

Manuela laughs, “What information could you possibly have?”

“Gertrude Robinson didn’t stop your ritual,” Jon says quietly and then continues, “I’m Jonathan Sims, the new Archivist, and if you’re willing, we need the Dark’s help.”

“What?” Manuela says softly and then her voice hardens, “What could you possibly have to offer the Dark? Your sight Archivist? You’ve already lost that and we didn’t take it.”

_Oh._ Jon pauses for a moment considering her words before he continues, “Jonah Magnus wishes to enact the Eye’s ritual, if it succeeds there would be no true darkness, it would always be known.”

“And what you want our help stopping it why? Why should I believe you?” Manuela demands and Jon can feel the darkness pressing closer, Tim’s warmth is swallowed and swathed, Basira stumbles pointing her gun at nothing.

“Because I don’t want to be part of it,” Jon says quietly and then continues, “Think of it as revenge if you’d like. After all, you’d be taking one of Beholding’s sight.”

Fingers dance featherlight over Jon’s cheek as Manuela states, “It’s a shame I can’t take yours. I’ll consider it Archivist if you’ll look at our sun.”

“Jon,” Tim protests gently, the warmth of his flames flickering in the empty darkness of the warehouse.

“I’ll do it,” Jon says and steps forward letting Manuela loop her arm through his, in a whisper he asks, “Can you tell who took it?”

Manuela hums pausing in front of a door, “Hard to say, but I think you already Know, don’t you?”

Then the door opens, Jon steps inside with a nod and _opens his eyes_.

It is beautiful, a darkness so complete, so utterly nothing that the very world warps around it, the absence of light, like a hole in the fabric of reality itself. Jon blinks away the tears and closes the door behind him.

Manuela makes an approving sound leading him slowly back towards the entrance, “You would do well with us Archivist. I’ll do it. You know how to contact me.”

Then Tim’s hand is wrapping around Jon’s arm tugging him close, Manuela melts away into the darkness and it is just the three of them. Basira huffs shifting she asks, “Well?”

“She’ll help us,” Jon replies tilting his head as hears a familiar creaking sound, “And what about you Helen, will you help us?”

“Naughty Archivist,” Helen chides as she steps into the warehouse, “Stealing all the fun away, though I suppose I’ll help you. Helen rather liked the world as it was, well for the most part. Now, how about a shortcut?”

They’re at home, or what serves as it for the most part, Jon’s all but moved all of his furniture in and Tim’s brought over most of his stuff, not quite ready to make the commitment. Jon is curled up on the couch leaning against Tim, who is always so warm, with the Lieutenant flopped over his feet as some show plays quietly in the background.

Tim’s fingers card gently through Jon’s hair and he let’s out a long sigh, all the tension and the fear of the past few weeks slips away again. He can hear Martin in the kitchen humming away as he does the dishes, and the kettle begins to boil.

“You good?” Tim asks gently, shifting ever so slightly until Jon can hear his heartbeat slow and steady and there. Jon hums quietly reaching out until Tim loops his hand through Jon’s, the burn scars smooth beneath his fingers. Tim chuckles under his breath before he goes quiet, “How long do you think we have?”

“I don’t know, however long it’ll take for the Lukas’ to notice, to do something. They’re quite affluential,” Jon replies lowly, rubbing his thumb gently over the joints in Tim’s hands.

“And after that?” Tim questions, his hand has paused in its careful brushing of Jon’s hair for a moment before he resumes. The kettle’s boiled and Martin is singing softly under his breath as he pours the water.

“After that we see what we can do,” Jon murmurs, the Lieutenant shifts and he continues, “We deal with the Panopticon and Jonah Magnus.”

“Who should replace him?” Tim questions teasingly as Martin enters the living room, he sets two mugs on the table, and then settles on the other side of the Lieutenant.

“Who are we replacing?” Martin asks with a hint of amusement as Jon stretches and curls his fingers around the mug leeching the heat for a moment before he brings it to his lips and takes a slow sip. It’s good, it always is.

“Elias, if we deal with him, there’ll have to be a new head of the Institue,” Tim explains, his arms shifting as he talks with his hands and Jon makes an irritable noise as he is shifted with said movement.

“The Board or whatever would probably choose someone boring, but my bet’s on Martin,” Jon says with a grin which only grows when Martin squeaks and reaches over to gently hit Jon on the leg.

“I’m hardly qualified Jon,” Martin protests and then takes a loud sip of his tea.

“Well neither were you qualified for an assistant position and look how well you’ve done,” Tim replies cheerily still carding his fingers through Jon’s hair as he continues, “I think Martin would make an excellent head but my money might be on Basira. She’s got the whole intimidation factor down.”

“That’s true,” Martin says agreeably likely accompanied by a roll of his eyes before he continues, “Should we even keep the Institue open if it all works out?”

“It does some good,” Jon says quietly reaching out to tangle his fingers with Martin’s as he continues, “And it’s probably better for me, I don’t have to…”

“So, we’re going to talk about that then,” Tim says voice low and serious. It makes Jon freeze up with the urge to hide, to run away, something like nausea brewing in the pit of his stomach, but well there’s a dog on his legs, Tim continues, “Jon, we know you didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t, right?” Martin questions, his hand tightening temporarily around Jon’s wrist.

“I didn’t, I was just… It was like I was hungry and they were right there. I- Jude Perry said we have to feed our God? Before statements were enough, but now it’s like- it’s like the only time I feel right is after taking a live one,” Jon replies tucking his face into Tim’s chest, as if he can hide from this conversation, from what he is.

“Jon,” Martin says his name softly, one hand reaching forward to rest light and warm against his cheek before he continues, “It’s okay, well it’s not, but if you have to take statements then you have to. We’ll just find a better way of doing this.”

“You could become a therapist,” Tim teases lightly scratching Jon’s scalp which earns a faint rumbling noise deep in his chest.

“I think I have too much trauma for that,” Jon replies lightly and can’t help the way he runs a finger over the pockmarked scars on his arms, knows Tim and Martin are trading a sad look over his head.

“I-Peter Lukas wanted to see me today,” Martin says in the silence disturbed only by the faint background hum of the tv, Martin continues, “To talk about the complaints obviously. But I-I think I compelled him? I asked him what he was researching, he had all these statements on his desk. He-he said he was researching a, potentially a new fear. The Extinction.”

“Wait really?” Tim questions his hand pausing for a moment. Jon shifts frowning as he considers it, it’s possible, after all the Flesh is certainly a more recent fear, and in a sad sort of way it makes too much sense.

“Did he have any idea when this, Extinction would manifest?” Jon questions rubbing his thumb gently over Martin’s hands.

“No, I think he wanted me to help him research, I offered to have the Archives look into it, he didn’t seem pleased with that idea,” Martin replies with a huff before he continues, “He also said something rather strange about Elias, I’m certain he knows he’s Jonah Magnus, and about the Coffin.”

“That’s probably not good,” Tim says with a sigh, running his fingers idly through Jon’s hair.

“We’ll just have to try and keep an eye on him,” Jon says ignoring Tim’s snort he continues, “Martin could you perhaps search for statements that might be related to the Extinction and use them to speak with him?”

“I-yeah Jon of course,” Martin says leaning over the Lieutenant to press a kiss to his cheek.

Jon hums with a pleased smile and leans back against Tim’s chest taking a long sip of his tea and feeling the warmth seep through his lungs. So, maybe he’s become a monster, made a choice, but at least he has this, at least he has them.

Everything goes to shit on a mostly normal day.

Jon is in the Archives reading a statement when the door to his office opens and Tim bounces inside, smelling like a campfire and Jon imagines he can hear the faint sound of something burning as he slides into one of Jon’s chairs.

“Found it,” Tim says with a pleased note to his voice, the chair squeaks and Jon Knows he has his legs kicked over the side.

Jon sets down his statement and with a raised brow asks, “Found what?”

“The Panopticon. Turns out all it took was a bit of help from Helen,” Tim says and Jon can’t help the little smile that slips across his lips as Tim continues, “His body’s there, it’s old, practically ancient, it would burn nicely. The whole place is kind of creepy honestly.”

“Patience, we need to deal with Elias first,” Jon says with a shake of his head before he continues, “But thank you Tim.”

There’s a knock on the door and a second later it swings open with a bang and Daisy stomps in, she’s wearing her steel-toed boots again, they were too heavy the last time Jon saw her. Tim lets out a whistle and says, “If that’s what feeding your God does, I should give it a try.”

“Shut it Stoker,” Daisy snaps, she sounds better, her voice isn’t quite a whisper but it sounds like she’s been chain-smoking. Daisy slides into the other chair, the squeaky one and continues, “I’ve found it Jon, it’s taken over the life of one Amanda Cross, lives in London, her sister noticed of course, but she hasn’t said anything yet.”

“That’s… that’s excellent. Thank you, Daisy,” Jon says leaning back in his chair, everything is coming together, it’s just a matter of setting things into action.

Daisy’s stare is expectant before she huffs and asks, “You want me to kill it?”

“Not yet, we need it,” Jon replies as Tim rises to his feet, likely to glance at the boxes and knick-knacks that have accumulated on Jon’s shelves.

“What next then?” Daisy asks shifting in her seat, she smells faintly of blood and something wild, it fills the small space of his office.

“He needs live statements,” Tim says before Jon can respond and continues, “If you could find a few monsters I’m sure they’d provide quite a filling meal.”

“I could do that,” Daisy says sounding just the slightest bit pleased, Jon can’t really blame her, they’re the same after all. Aren’t they?

“So, boss what's,” Tim begins to ask when the door to his office slams open and Martin stumbles in gasping for breath, a gunshot rings out in the background.

“Those hunters from America? They’re here,” Martin says and a sharp silence fills the office.

“Archivist we’ve come for what’s ours,” Julia says distantly, her voice a sing-song tune in the Archives as Daisy growls low in her throat, the scent of blood has grown stark as she rises to her feet and stalks out the door.

“Martin, get Jon out of here,” Tim says, the air feels seared with heat, parching his throat and drying out his lungs.

“Tim,” Jon protests as Martin carefully loops his arm through Jon’s, he spares a moment of thanks that he’s left the Lieutenant at Georgie’s today.

“There’s three of us, we’ll be fine Jon, go we’ll meet up afterwards,” Tim says and before Jon can protest, he steps out of the office. Martin’s grip around his arm is tight but not enough to hurt as he tugs Jon carefully out of the office and behind a shelf.

“Come on, we’ll go to the foyer and we’ll wait there, they’ll be okay,” Martin says tugging Jon forward, more reassuring himself than Jon but he doesn’t blame him. He lets Martin guide him as he forces himself to Know and his eyes _open_. It is Julia and Trevor, Basira has her gun pointed at Trevor, Tim is standing nearby fire dancing across his skin, and Julia is grappling with Daisy; they don’t look human anymore, too long teeth and claws.

“What do we have here, if it isn’t the Archivist and Martin,” A voice says in front of them and Jon snaps to attention suddenly. They’re in the foyer, he can tell from the way noise bounces off the walls and the faint sound of chatter and footsteps. The man in front of them is cold, the seeping icy sort of cold, with a pleasant sort of voice, the almost grandfatherly but really _not_ sort.

“Mr. Lukas,” Martin greets just barely hiding annoyance under pleasantry as he continues, “There’s been a bit of an attack in the Archives, two Hunters.”

“Ah, I suppose that might be a bit dangerous with your flame friend down there Elias won’t be pleased,” Lukas says meanderingly before he continues, “Martin if you could alert Rosie, I’ll go deal with it in a moment.”

Martin pauses, obviously hesitant to leave Jon alone before the sound of his footsteps retreating makes themselves known. Jon stands very still and tries to act confident as Peter hums pleased and continues, “Now about Elias. I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite a while Archivist, see it wasn’t very nice of you to send the Coffin there. I’m very fond of Elias and so I think I’m going to send you to the Lonely what are your thoughts on the matter?”

“I’d rather prefer if you didn’t,” Jon says mildly, swallows and wishes Martin comes back quickly, there’s a seeping sort of cold filling him as he continues, “But I doubt you would be able to keep me there long Lukas.”

He chuckles, “Oh we’ll see.”

Then suddenly, Jon is not in the foyer of the Institue, he is not _anywhere_. There is nothing, no footsteps, no laughter, no talking, just the faint dull crash of waves against the shore. Jon Knows he is utterly alone. There is no one.

Jon walks forward, sand shifts beneath his feet, mist collects around him, cool against his skin.

He is alone.

Tim and Martin would be happier without him, wouldn’t they? Everyone would be safer if he just stayed here, alone. Elias wouldn’t be able to enact his ritual. Jon wouldn’t be able to drag anyone else into his life, he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else. This would be safer for everyone else involved. He wouldn’t be a burden.

Here it was safe. He couldn’t harm anyone here. He was safe here.

“Not so mighty now are we Archivist?” Peter’s voice drifts smugly through the mist and Jon pauses turning on the sand which collects beneath his feet searching for the voice, Lukas laughs and continues, “Then again you should be alone, shouldn’t you Archivist? Look what you’ve done to your friends, where are they, Archivist?”

“They’re fighting because of me, they… Tim was- is touched by the Desolation because of me. Georgie’s been dragged into this, Martin’s suffered through so much…”

“All because of you,” Peter says and Jon can hear a smile in his voice, can imagine something smug.

“But,” Jon shakes his head and takes a step forward, “They are also safe because of me. I pulled Daisy from the coffin, Basira isn’t tied to the Institue, Melanie is living with Georgie, Tim and Martin make my life better, make me better,” Jon inhales and tilts his head, “I _see_ you, Peter Lukas, tell me your story.”

Static crackles, thick and heavy on the air.

“I- stop what are you doing?” Pete Lukas demands, his voice is pained and short.

“Tell me your story,” Jon demands and takes another step forward and with a grin, he says, “I _Know_ you. Statement of Peter Lukas regarding the Lonely…”

The words trail from Jon’s lips caked in static, pulled from Lukas until he is panting collapsed in his own domain, Jon walks carefully forward, he can feel a tug deep in his chest, the faint taste of Martin’s tea on his tongue as with a final tug the last words trail from his lips, “And so wishing to die alone, Peter Lukas will, he will wander the Lonely and he will never find his way out, he will die alone and he will be happy.”

Jon turns away from the pathetic form sprawled on the sand, he can hear it now, faintly, Martin’s voice, “Jon!”

And then Tim’s, “You bastard, you better return to us.”

Jon walks forward, the Lonely clings at him, the mist tries to fill his lungs, to seep into his head. It tells him that he is better alone, that this will be safer for everyone, that this is where he should be.

It isn’t. Jon knows where he should be.

He steps out of the Lonely.

“Jon, I have a few statements for you,” Martin says as he bustles into Jon’s office, he sets a mug of tea on Jon’s desk and leans over to press a kiss to Jon’s cheek setting the statements down on his desk.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says with a fond smile leaning into the kiss with a hum. Martin smiles into the kiss reaching out he loops his hand through Jon’s, the contact grounds him for a long moment in the here and now. He isn’t alone, he isn’t buried, he’s safe.

“Have you spoken to Basira lately?” Martin questions as he pulls away slightly, one hand still laced with Jon’s. It was hard for a while, uncertainty and the inability at times to reassure himself that there was someone else there.

“No, how’s she handling everything?” Jon replies as he sorts through the statements, his fingers hover over one and he settles it on top of the pile.

“She’s terrified the Board and charmed most of our sponsors with a spiel about inclusivity, diversity, and all that. Daisy’s back so hopefully you can have a proper statement soon, but otherwise she’s managing well enough. Georgie’s been by a few times to help with the more business-y aspects and I think Basira’s considering hiring her,” Martin replies as Jon reaches out and takes a sip of the tea, the warmth chases away the chill.

“That’s good, though I doubt Georgie will accept, she’s been busy what with the whole Ghost Hunt and What the Ghost crossover thing they have going on,” Jon replies with a fond smile and reaches down to run his fingers through the Lieutenant’s soft fur.

“Hard to say,” Martin agrees and pauses for a moment before adding, “Are- do you still want to go on that vacation Tim was talking about? I know he said anywhere, we could go to a motel for a weekend, or even up to the sea maybe?”

“I-yes Martin I do, a vacation would be nice, we just need to make sure…” Jon responds carefully, idly thoughts drifting through his mind of sitting on the beach with Martin and Tim, going for a drive, eating at some quaint restaurant.

“Just have to deal with Jonah Magnus,” Martin says with a sigh before he continues, “Daisy checked in on the prison, the coffin’s gone.”

“I suppose we’ll need to make a few calls,” Jon says quietly and though he can’t feel it within the Archives, he has no doubt if he stepped outside, he would feel the weight of Elias’ gaze. It has been strangely lacking these past few months.

“I’ll tell Daisy, she’ll need a few days to track it down again,” Martin says with a sigh before he continues, “I’ll tell Melanie and she can talk to Helen. You sure you’ll be able to contact Oliver and Manuela?”

“Yes,” Jon says one hand straying to the statement in front of him before he shakes his head.

“I’ll leave to read your statements then, Jon,” Martin says with a smile to his voice, he leans forward and presses a kiss to Jon’s head before he pulls back and leaves shutting the door with a quiet click behind him.

Jon smiles for a moment warm all over before with a shake of his head he glances at the statement that’s drawn his attention.

It’s not in braille.

Jon tilts his head pausing for a moment, he sorts through the stacks, all the others sheets are in braille, they usually are. It’s not that Jon can’t read a statement that isn’t braille, at least not anymore, he can just Know it. But Martin or Tim always make sure that the statements are in braille before hand anyway.

For a second, Jon is tempted to push it aside, there is a part of him that urges Jon to forget it, just read the statement.

Maybe Martin forgot this one. It’s probably normal. There’s no reason to be suspicious.

“Martin!” Jon calls out leaning away from the statement and carefully tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweater (which isn’t frumpy Tim). The Lieutenant shifts as the door clicks open and Martin steps back inside.

“Yes, Jon?” He asks confused and Jon thrusts the statement at him.

Martin takes it slowly as Jon hesitantly explains, “It uh wasn’t in braille?”

“I’ll look over it,” Martin says and Jon Knows he’s reading the statement quickly trying to remember if he did copy it already, then Martin’s voice goes shaky, “Oh God. Jon this- this isn’t a statement. It’s from Elias, it has-,”

“The ritual,” Jon says quietly and pushes back flattening himself against the wall, there’s static in his ears, buzzing through him and the Eye is telling him he needs to read that statement, needs to _Know._

“Tim!” Martin calls and then continues shakily, “I suppose this pushes things up a bit and I guess we’ll have to screen your statements better until he’s dealt with. Christ, if he had sent it in braille we wouldn’t have noticed”

“What’s up?” Tim asks as he enters Jon’s office bringing with him the searing heat that always surrounds him now, turns out burning someone alive, someone who means something however twisted, is a bit of a commitment.

“Burn this please,” Martin says and there’s the crinkle of paper as the statement is passed from Martin’s hands to Tim’s. There’s a quiet moment where Tim glances at the statement before he nods and then with a sudden crackle there is the scent of paper burning. Jon only breathes and pulls away from the wall when he Knows the statement is ashes on the floor.

“Neither of you read the whole ritual, right?” Jon demands and then continues, “Because I might not be able to stop myself from Knowing it.”

“We didn’t read it, Jon,” Martin reassures and takes a careful step forward until his hands are warm on Jon’s arms. He exhales long and slow and leans forward resting his head on Martin’s shoulder.

“Guess we need to make some phone calls,” Tim says quietly as he joins them, wrapping an arm around Jon and Martin, chasing away the lingering dregs of fear. He almost, they almost… but they didn’t. They’re fine, they’re okay.

“Are you sure about this Jon?” Daisy questions her voice almost a growl, the scent of blood and _wild_ is thick around her, Jon can almost hear it pounding through his head, like the drums of some ancient song.

“No, but it’s are our only option right now,” Jon replies with a shrug as Daisy guides him up the stairs into an apartment.

Daisy scoffs and says, “This place used to belong to one Gilbert Moss, now the proud owner of the not-them and a certain table.”

They pause in front of a door and Daisy’s grasp around his arm tightens for a moment as she reaches up and knocks on the door. For a long moment, there is silence just the draw of their breaths and the faint sound of footsteps.

Then the door swings open and a male voice asks irritably, “Can I help you?”

“Hello again,” Jon says and steps forward, static crackles on the air trapping the aspect of the Stranger, trapping the not-them.

“Archivist,” it sneers twitching in the shock of being _known_ it continues, “Here for some petty revenge? I did what you’ve asked, I’ve stayed away from your precious Archives.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Jon states carefully before he continues, “I need your assistance with a matter.”

“Or what you’ll destroy me?” The not-them retorts leaning forward slightly. Daisy growls low in her throat, animalistic, and Jon has no doubt that between the two of them Daisy would come out on top.

“Yes,” Jon replies succinctly, “I’m quite capable of it now.”

The world stretches for a moment, balanced on a razor and filled with static before the not-them laughs, it is not a particularly pleasant laugh, “You’re bluffing Archivist.”

“Am I?” Jon asks, the sound of static filling the air grows stronger, it fills the air as dirt fills your lungs, or as darkness seeps into every crack and corner, Jon _opens his eyes_ and he Knows that which is the not-them.

“I-I’ll do it!” The not-them grounds out in between a pained shriek, almost grovelling.

Jon nods and closes his eyes, let’s the static bleed away as he smiles, it is not a pleasant smile, “I need you to erase that which is Elias Bouchard when I ask.”

“That’s all?” The not-them sound suspicious and Jon nods.

“Well, he’s been around for quite a while, Jonah Magnus, but I’m sure that won’t be difficult for a being of your power,” Jon says carefully, just the right mix of praise; he is beginning to sound like Elias, but if that is what it takes.

“Alright,” The not-them agrees and Jon smiles and nods turning away from the door. Daisy shares the relevant details as he walks down the hallway and pulls out his phone. He scrolls through the contacts, the familiar voice reading them out before it stops on the right one.

The phone rings for a long moment before a voice asks, “Hello?”

“Hello Mike, if you could put Oliver on the phone?”

It starts with Jon standing alone in the Panopticon, well mostly alone.

It is dark, not a natural darkness, the kind of seeping, filling, crawling darkness, the darkness of three am where everything that is Known becomes unfamiliar. This darkness, however, does not cause Jon any discomfort as he stands near the body of Jonah Magnus, he cannot see it and he has known it for far too long.

He can feel the weight of the Ceaseless Watcher upon him in this place which once might have crowed Jonah Magnus and shall now be his undoing.

He Knows when Jonah steps into the Panopticon, one of the other tunnels, connected to somewhere mundane. His footsteps are confident and do not falter once in the heavy darkness as his voice fills the Panopticon, “Jon a pleasure to see you again, I assume you got the statement I sent you?”

“Yes, Tim had a lot of fun burning it,” Jon replies carefully, he does not shift, does not need to see where Elias is.

Jonah tuts and paces around the room carefully as he states, “Really now, this is all a bit much. I hardly think you need the Dark here to interfere.”

“And why is that?” Jon questions softly, static crackles on his tongue, it is sweet, powerful.

“Now Jon, do I really need to explain it? You’ve been marked, you Know what we could accomplish together. Immortality, never dying, a world of fear and knowledge, you would be able to see everything,” Jonah states and his voice runs like honey, sweet but with a wicked underbite.

It is almost tempting.

Jon laughs, the sound bouncing off the walls as he replies, “I don’t want immortality Jonah, I don’t want to know everything.”

“But you want to see, don’t you?” Jonah questions, he is closer, the tap of his polished shoes drawing steadily nearer as he continues, “Do you know why the Eye took your sight, Jon?”

Jon is silent, patient. Jonah chuckles, draws so close Jon can feel his breath on his skin as he whispers, “It took it because it knew you would be perfect without it. And you are,” he steps back, “Such a wonderful Archivist, so curious, no regard for your own safety, you knew what I was planning and yet willingly threw yourself at the feet of the entities. My Archive, the perfect collection of fear.”

The words linger for a moment, Jon isn’t certain if they’re true, can’t yet believe it, even as he replies, “I don’t want the world to end, I won’t bring about your ritual.”

“I suppose I could always start fresh,” Jonah hums and continues, “Now that I know what to do after all. I have time, ten years, a hundred years, I’ll do it. But Jon, why not now? It would be beautiful; it would be perfect.”

Jon laughs, it is a sad sound as he replies, “No, it would be the end of everything even you Jonah. You’ve run out of time.”

Multiple things happen at that moment. Jonah lunges forward a knife in his hands that will surely find its way to Jon’s throat, at the same time the not-them lunges forward tackling Jonah Magnus. Helen’s laughter fills the room as Tim steps out of the tunnels with Oliver and Manuela at his side.

Helen cradles Jonah’s head and everything becomes horribly _wrong_ as Manuela steps forward where the not-them pins Jonah down, she says, “This is our deal Archivist,” and destroys the eyes of Jonah Magnus, swamping them in darkness. The not-them begins to feast and all that was Jonah Magnus and Elias Bouchard is stripped from existence.

At the same moment, Tim sets Jonah’s original body on fire, the flames flicker and crackle as Oliver Banks watches and ensures this end.

When there is only the scent of burnt flesh, when the not-them has fled into the tunnels, when Oliver has departed with a nod, and Manuela has slipped back into the darkness, Jon walks forward. The Eye watches him, it sees him, it knows him as Jon steps forward into the centre of the Panopticon.

Distantly, he can hear Tim calling his name, Martin is there too he thinks.

And then?

Then Jon s _ees_

He sees and knows and watches all that is and was and will ever be. He sees the red flush of an apple ripe on the tree, the growth of that tree from sapling to felled stump, he sees and knows, all that was written and will be written, and has not yet or will ever be.

And the Eye asks _see?_

_No_

Jon responds and the word is a tremor, it the marks upon his soul which tie him to each entity calling out in words that he knows, that will linger always at the back of his mind, asking, pleading, begging to be said.

But the Eye, it _smiles_ , it is pleased. Jon has the faintest sense of contentment.

Then he sees nothing and knows nothing but the cold stone of the Panopticon and Tim’s arms wrapped around his body blisteringly hot, Martin’s tears warm on his cheeks. Jon smiles and reaches up, rubs the tears on Martin’s cheeks away, presses a kiss to Tim’s arms.

“It’s over,” He whispers, and it is true for the most part.

Jonah Magnus is dead. The fears which feed and consume linger still, the words that might bring them into the world linger and pound a rhythm to a song he could know at the back of his mind. The Extinction waits and might soon _become_. It is all still there. But this at least is over.

Jon sits in front of a crackling fire, the warmth of it fills the small cabin they’ve rented and Jon has a book resting against his chest, he feels tired, but it is the content sort of tired, that of relaxation and peace. Faintly, music plays from one of Martin’s CDs, some band or another that he doesn’t mind.

The door to the cabin creaks open and Jon smiles at the sound of Martins laughter and asks, “See any good cows?”

“The best,” Martin confides cheerily and presses a kiss to Jon’s cheek as Tim follows him inside hanging his coat on the door. Jon hums pleased and smiles softly when Tim presses a kiss to his cheek as well and passes a dog treat to the Lieutenant who is soaking up the warmth of the fire.

“I’ll start dinner, anything in particular tonight?” Martin questions from where he’s bustling into the kitchen, Tim says something back about pasta and Martin continues, “Of course. We saw a calf today Jon, it was very cute, Tim’s calling it Spot, but I was thinking something like Ophelia? What do you think?”

“Both are good,” Jon says with a shrug leaning further into the couch as Tim settles on the other end and passes Jon a mug of tea.

“Got some mail today,” Tim says casually, “A few statements from Basira, accompanied by a note yelling at us to finish our vacation already, something about how the Archives are still a mess and all that.”

“You looked through them all?” Jon questions softly as he takes the package from Tim’s hands and flips through the statements.

“Of course,” Tim reassures before continuing, “She says they’re doing well; the sponsors are all charmed with her, Daisy’s been handling a lot of the research cases lately. Basira’s been pushing for more educational resources on the fears and stuff, meant to help people know, can’t tell if it’s a good thing or not.”

“It’s a good thing,” Jon says with a grin as Martin exits the kitchen, from the sound of it he’s patting his hands dry, he plops a kiss on the crown of Jon’s head before he settles in the old armchair closest to the fire and pulls out his knitting, a sweater this time.

“Melanie called, says we’re still invited to game night, and Helen will be there so you’re allowed to cheat, Jon,” Tim continues with a grin reaching over to ruffle Jon’s hair, he scowls and bats at Tim’s hands.

“Oh, Oliver and Mike called, if you’re up to it, they still want to get drinks with you next month,” Martin adds with a hum.

“That would be nice,” Jon agrees running his fingers carefully over the knit blanket, there are a few mistakes but Martin made it so Jon thinks they’re rather precious and perfect, he continues, “If I can pull myself away from you both for a night we’ll see.”

“Pull you away from your research more like,” Tim teases fondly as Martin rises to his feet to check on the pasta. The Extinction is still an issue, there are always statements to deal with and the Slaughter’s been rather rowdy lately. But that’s his life now and he can deal with that.

Jon shrugs his shoulders and leans back against the couch, the warmth of the fire is pleasant against his skin, he can hear Martin humming along to the music in the kitchen, feel Tim’s warmth bleeding through the blankets.

The words still linger on his tongue, some days stronger than others and Jon feels the weight of what he could do, what he could become.

Then Martin speaks poetry, or Tim says a joke and they slip away again. It doesn’t matter that Jon can’t see their faces, won’t ever truly know what his favourite movie is like. Because he has this and this is more than enough. This is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! I hope you enjoyed this last chapter, I had a lot of fun writing it, even if it took me a bit. Comments are always appreciated, thank you all for reading!!


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